Like the Music of Angels
by Randomcat1832
Summary: "In my life, she has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun." A look into Cosette's evolving relationship with Marius and her father in the year before the barricades go up.
1. Lost and Found

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_Like the Music of Angels_

Author's Note: Firstly, thank you to all of you who decided to give this story a look-see, plus those of you who are here because they follow me. Whether this is the first story of mine you're reading, or you've read them all … thank you! I don't have terribly much to say about this one, but feel free to ask me questions.  
>This story is technically set in the universe of previous story of mine, <em>Until the Earth is Free<em>, meaning the blend of book and musical and timelines are the same, however, it can definitely be read on its own. It will be written in a combination of writing in my usual style and excerpts from Cosette's diary. One scene from this story is admittedly partially stolen from _UTEIF_, but since they're technically set within the same universe, I figure this is totally allowed. I'm incredibly uncomfortable writing this, because romance is a territory I'm not used to, so feedback would be desperately appreciated. I expect this story might come out sounding a little cheesy, but my logic is that it won't be any cheesier than the romance segments of the musical itself.  
>Also, an absolutely enormous thank-you a million times over to the fantastic <strong>Ramonks33<strong>, who made the gorgeous cover image for me.

For my own reference: 9th fanfiction published, 6th story for _Les Misérables_.

.~*~*~*~.

Word Count: 4,166

Chapter I: Lost and Found

* * *

><p><strong>June 3<strong>

The first time she saw him was in the Jardin du Luxembourg and she didn't quite know what she thought of him.

He was a little older than her, but by no more than three or four years. He was tall, with nut-brown hair that stuck up in odd directions and a generous scattering of nut-brown freckles across his face. He was long-limbed and well dressed: clearly he was quite a gentleman who came from a wealthy family. With him was a brown book-bag with a leather strap, and she gathered that he must be a student. His handsome face was scattered in a light dusting of pale freckles, and his hair was a soft nut brown. But what she found most intriguing about the gentleman — he was more of a boy, really — were his eyes. They were a shade of light green, and they looked at her in a way she'd never been looked at before. It was enough to make her blush.

All she could conclude was that she thought him handsome. She passed by him on the walking-path for but a moment, and his shoulder brushed gently against her own. It was alarming to Cosette how the feel of him filled her with a foreign tingling sensation, and how her heart could be heard pounding in her ears. As he bumped into her, they turned, and again their gazes met. Blue eyes stared into green. The gentleman gaped a moment; his mouth opening and closing like a fish. At last he said, "_M-mademoiselle_. Forgive me."

Cosette blushed harder, and she prayed that Papa could not hear her heartbeat, absolutely pumping blood a little faster now. All she managed was a polite smile and a shake of the head before continuing on her way. She and Papa continued their stroll, as was their daily ritual, and finally returned home. They ate a humble but filling supper of soup with some buttered bread on the side, and a glass of milk. It was a quiet affair, for Cosette's mind was consumed, taken over with thoughts of the young gentleman. Papa noted on her silence with a concerned frown: "Cosette, my child, are you quite all right? You're very quiet today."

She shook her head, smiled. "Am I? Don't worry, Papa, I'm perfectly fine. I suppose I must have been daydreaming."

Cosette had a good, private life here at home with her Papa. She had been living with him since she was seven or eight years old, and her life before him was a hazy blur. She remembered very little of her old life, and Papa never discussed it with her. The few images Cosette could recollect were confusing ones: of bare feet on snow and numb with cold, of a large woman who shouted, and of a dark and frightening wood with a well.

But Papa treated her so well, she'd never given life without him a second thought. Now, all her thoughts were of the gentleman, and they bewildered her. Certainly, she'd never expected to fall in love: romance was a matter that remained confined to the pages of the books she cherished, especially the works of Miss Austen and Shakespeare.

When she went to bed that night, she thought of the boy from the park. He filled her mind as she lay awake, and slipped into her dreams when at last she fell asleep with a final contended sigh.

.~*~*~*~.

**June 4**

Cosette didn't know why she expected she might see the gentleman again that day in the Jardin du Luxembourg. She and Papa went on a stroll there each and every day, and as far as Cosette could recall, she'd never seen the boy there in the past. She'd seen him once, by chance, and that was all. Paris was an enormous city, and home to countless people. As the odds were, she'd never see him again. So why was it that when they paused at their usual bench to read, she sat up a little straighter and kept looking up from her book?

Needless to say, she _didn't_ see the boy again. The park was, in fact, largely deserted. The only other person there was a waif of a girl very near Cosette's age of sixteen. She wore a ragged dress which might have once been white had it not been so dirty, and her dark hair was stringy and matted. The girl was there for but a moment: she passed by their bench with little more than a glance their way, and then she was gone. A little later, a mother chased down her small children, a boy of no more than eight tormenting his younger sister with a worm.

As was their wont, Cosette and her Papa returned home, dined, and then went their separate ways. On most nights, she would tend to her knitting in the parlour with a fire in the hearth. But the weather was warm today, the sun was slow in its setting, and her heart was light as ever. She asked to sit outside in the garden a little and read. Papa gave her permission, if only for a little while.

The garden was a lovely place where the girl spent much of her time. Papa was experienced in gardening, and he'd planted some lovely flowers. There was also an apple tree, a small stone statue, and a little bench. This bench was where Cosette now sat, her copy of _Pride and Prejudice_ open on her lap. But she wasn't reading it. Instead, she sat perched with her chin resting in her hand, gazing beyond the gate, her thoughts alternating between fantasies of the young gentleman, and self-scoldings, for she was being very silly and childish at the moment. It was not as thought she'd ever see him again. She was a schoolgirl dreaming of her knight in shining armour.

Merciful heavens — they didn't even know each other's names!

It was at this precise moment that something suddenly landed in a heap at her feet, drawing from Cosette a startled yelp. Someone had climbed their gate and had just landed clumsily in front of her. Now this figure gazed up at her, and she was looking down into his face — freckles and all.

The two stared at each other for what might have been an eternity, or perhaps less than a minute. And then Cosette realised that he was _here_, in her garden, _and she didn't know his name_. She didn't dare scream or call for her father, though every ounce of sense she was made of urged her to. Instead, she offered him one hand. He grasped it, and she helped him to his feet. His palm was slick with sweat.

She didn't know how to introduce herself, or what at all to say, but this boy certainly wasn't about to say anything. He was looking at her in awe: as though she were an angel and he'd caught her, pulled her down from the heavens. He was clearly too amazed to speak, so Cosette said something instead. "Pardon my rudeness, _Monsieur_ … but who exactly are you and whatever are you doing in my garden?" A smile found its way to her lips, unwelcome at the moment. "And however did you find me?"

Those eyes didn't leave her for a second. The tingling feeling which had birthed in Cosette's chest blossomed to one of inexplicable giddiness. He spoke, gently, his voice soft. "My name is Marius Pontmercy. And I believe I must have followed an angel." Suddenly, he stepped back and blinked hard, as if he'd awoken from a trance. "My God," he said. He buried his freckled face in his palms and his ears went pink. "I'm doing everything all wrong. Oh, _God_ … I do not even know your name."

Cosette couldn't help it; she giggled. "Cosette," she told him. "My name is Cosette."

"That's a beautiful name. It's the name of an angel, for you yourself, _mademoiselle_, are an angel." As Cosette stood before him, putting on a façade of bemusement but just as flustered and delightedly confused inside, he reached out to tuck behind her ear a lock of her ash blonde hair. She allowed him to do so as he went on, his words tumbling out of his mouth and tripping over themselves in a battle to be heard all at once. "Dearest _mademoiselle_. Forgive me, but … well, I believe I have fallen in love with you."

His hand was still stroking the lock of her hair, and Cosette, despite herself, allowed the truth to be spoken. "And as for you, _monsieur_, I believe I might be in love with you, too." It was a whisper. One of her hands was suddenly tightly holding his cravat, and she was pulling him close. And he, too, was coming closer and their lips were suddenly inches apart.

The kiss didn't last very long; perhaps only ten seconds. But it was bliss. All went quiet, but for the simultaneous beating of their hearts. His lips met hers in a firm promise, and on them she could taste his nervousness and breathlessness. She supposed he must be able to taste hers, too. Their mouths brushed against each other, her hand still holding tightly to his cravat; the other had wound its way around his back and was stroking the nape of his neck. His arms were wrapped firmly against her waist, fingers stroking her lower spine, and when he pulled away, his eyes were slightly glazed over, drunk for his love for her.

In an instant, Cosette felt herself go red and she took a step back. "I — I really must go. My Papa shall be expecting me." She began to desperately smooth out her skirts, her hair. "Forgive me, _monsieur_ Marius. You must think me terribly rude, but … well, it's very late … " She felt herself blush further as she suddenly realised that she'd addressed him with a casual _tu_ rather than the formal, more appropriate _vous_, given the fact that they'd only just met. But then she realised he had been addressing her with the informal _tu_ as well.

Marius looked disappointed, but he didn't seem to be angry. "I shall be here tomorrow, Cosette, at the same time, if you so wish. I'll come."

She nodded, a rag doll bobbing its head up and down. "Please do. In the evening, here in my garden. And — you ought to go, too, before my Papa comes." Cosette turned and lifted her skirts, dashing across the garden and back to the house without another word; and behind her, she could hear Marius turning on his heels, too, and climbing their gate.

When she reached the entrance hallway downstairs, at the door leading to their landlord's hallway, she paused and sniffed at her sleeve, as though her father might be able to smell the love on her. Her dress smelled no different than it normally might, but the spots where he'd touched her, on her lower back, were warm and tingly with a feeling she knew next to little about, but had now decided she truly liked.

.~*~*~*~.

**June 5**

The next day was a Sunday, meaning that she and Papa had Mass to attend. Cosette never really enjoyed Mass, and she hated the stiff, scratchy feeling of her grey Sunday gown against her skin. Papa had told her she didn't have to attend each week if she didn't want to, so long as she said her prayers before going to bed. "I know you're a good girl, my sweet child," he would say. But Cosette went every week with him to the cathedral, just like clockwork. It wasn't the service she enjoyed, it was the work she and her father tended to afterwards.

Every Sunday, after the service, Papa collaborated with the priest and a few other good-hearted people who did charity work outside of the church for precisely two hours. They set up a stall stand and cooked soup and sliced bread to distribute to the poor. For this reason, they never attended their local church, as they lived in a wealthy neighbourhood, but rather, travelled to the Place San-Michel (the slums) and attended the weekly service there. From there, they gave out food to the poor and homeless of Paris, who flocked to the church like a fish to a worm.

There were people in all shapes and sizes, and they fascinated her as much as she pitied them. Stooped old men with their dirty white hair clinging to their scalps; factory men covered in soot; young women and girls Cosette's age and younger still; elderly ladies with the lines of their years of misery etched into their faces, their weathered hands. But the true reason Cosette liked to help with the charity work was the children. It saddened her heart to see them: dressed in rags which never sufficed in the winter, their tiny, skinny bodies covered in dirt. But each time she handed a child a fat slice of bread and a bowl of soup, their eyes lit up and smiles blessed their lamentable faces. That, Cosette felt, was reason enough to want to do good.

That day, she was afraid, for some reason, that she might not have room in her heart for the poor; _Monsieur_ Marius Pontmercy had taken up so much room. So she was relieved to discover that doing the charity work still left her with the same satisfied feeling of doing good that it usually did. Or perhaps she was acting a little bit differently. Alice, an eleven-year-old girl who came regularly and whom Cosette had gotten to know a little, asked when being handed her share of soup and bread, "Has something happened to _mademoiselle_?"

Cosette frowned, gently waving her aside so that the next person in the queue might receive their food, but continued the conversation. "To me? No, not at all? What's possessed you to ask, Alice?"

Alice paused to take a large bite of bread before answering. Through a full mouth, she said, "Well, you got a faraway look in your eyes is all, _mademoiselle_."

"Have I? Well, that's funny, nothing at all has happened to me since we saw each other last week."

"Oh." Alice looked a bit disappointed. "Well, perhaps you're just thinking 'bout something, _mademoiselle_."

"Yes, love, that must be it, indeed."

This had all occurred earlier today; it was now late in the evening but the sun had not set. Papa was inside, in their apartment on the second floor of the house, reading from his Bible. Cosette, meanwhile was sitting in the garden, on the bench, book in lap. She wasn't reading, of course: she was much too excited and nervous. She worried that Marius wouldn't come, that he'd only stopped by that one time. What if he saw another young lady he thought beautiful, he took interest in her, and forgot Cosette altogether? Was that the sort of thing men did? She didn't think so, but of course, she didn't think that most men followed girls home and climbed their garden gates before even introducing themselves.

Her worries were soon stifled, however, when she saw a young gentleman walking rapidly down the street, and he soon came to her garden gate. It was all Cosette could do not to jump to her feet and run to him. But instead, she remained seated, and waved to him, like a proper lady. Marius seemed to brighten when he spotted her, and at once he took to climbing the gate. He thankfully managed not to fall this time, and came over to sit next to her on the bench, taking her hands in his. "Good evening, _mademoiselle_," he said sincerely.

Cosette couldn't help it; she giggled again, ever the silly schoolgirl. "Good evening," she returned once she'd overcome her fit of giggles. Then, she added mindlessly, "You came."

"Why, of course I came, Cosette. I cannot resist you; I spent all of my day pacing my chambers and awaiting the time I could leave my home to walk here — you see, I live rather far away, quite on the other side of the city. It was a long walk, but very worth it."

Cosette was a little alarmed. "Oh, no, I've made you come a long way! That's not very fair of me. You should have taken a hansom cab. From what I can tell, you're at least as well-off as myself, if not more so. Of course, we know very little about each other."

His lips came closer towards hers. "I'm of a wealthy background, it is true, but I don't … believe in such indulgences when there are poor souls who never have enough to eat each day in the slums of this city."

_Like Papa_, Cosette thought, but she didn't say anything. Instead she only murmured something about what a good person he was and how she agreed completely. She loved her father dearly, but she wasn't stupid and she knew he wouldn't take kindly to her being in love. How she hated keeping secrets from him! But Marius would simply have to remain one, else Papa had them move away, and then she'd never see her love again. Papa was a subject she'd prefer remained unspoken of.

They spent the entire evening telling each other about themselves, often interrupting with brief kisses before allowing the other to continue. Cosette learned that Marius was twenty, and technically an orphan — his mother had died of illness when he was a baby and his father had gone away to live in a distant village and had passed away recently; Marius had never met the man but had travelled to attend his funeral. He had no brothers or sisters. She learned that he'd been raised by his grandfather, a wealthy baron, who'd recently shunned his grandson for reasons Marius didn't elaborate on. The young gentleman did have enough money to get by more or less comfortably, and he was living in a tenement building on the outskirts of Paris. He was a student of law, and still managed to pay for his tuition with only some difficulty. He had many friends, fellow students, with whom he met almost every day at a café. When Cosette asked him what these meeting were about — were they study sessions or simply friendly get-togethers for drinks and amusement? — Marius answered that they were neither, and said nothing more of the matter.

However, when came the time for Cosette to tell Marius about herself, she found herself at a loss for words: she knew she was unlike other young ladies, for her past was a complicated one and which she only remembered in disconnected fragments. Like Marius, she had never known her mother. _Her_ maman had given her up when Cosette was around two, and the child had been raised by another family in a little village outside of Paris. She didn't really remember these years of her life, but from what little she _could_ recall, she understood they'd not been happy ones. When she was seven or eight, she explained, her Papa had come for her and adopted her. He was not even her true father, but he may as well have been, for he'd raised her since she was a child, and raised her well. At the time he took her in, he told her that he'd been sent by her mother, who'd only just gone to be with God. From there, Cosette remembered her life better. Papa was a wealthy, but humble man, and she'd spent her entire life in this house on Rue Plumet, where she'd been educated at home by Papa.

This was what she knew, but she didn't tell Marius most of it. She told him, perfectly plainly, that she didn't remember much of her early childhood, but that she, too, was an orphan, and that her Papa had adopted her when she was still small. And that was that.

By this point, the sun had sunken completely below the horizon, and the sky had turned to a rich, ink black. Very soon, Papa would be calling her to come inside, so Cosette bid Marius farewell for the night with one last kiss and asked him to return to her tomorrow at the same time. This he promised to do as he turned and started heading for the gate, albeit reluctantly. "Oh, and — Marius," Cosette called softly after him. He practically wheeled on the spot. "Don't tire yourself on your way here tomorrow, now."

"I shan't," he said, before climbing the gate, and in a minute he was gone.

She watched him go this time, before turning herself and dashing towards the house. As she crossed the garden, Papa called to her from the upper window: "Cosette, sweet child, come inside now! It's very late!"

"I'm already coming, Papa!" she shouted back, and when she'd climbed the stairs and entered the apartment she saw him sitting at the table already in his sleep-clothes.

"You oughtn't be outside at this hour, Cosette," he told her firmly. "Run along now, and prepare yourself for bed."

"Yes, Papa." She washed her face and changed into her nightdress. She said her prayers and bid her father a good night before putting out her oil-lamp and crawling into bed. It usually took Cosette a long time to fall asleep, for it was during the night when she did a lot of thinking, and that kept her up for a while. But tonight, she fell asleep almost instantly.

Marius Pontmercy was in her dreams yet again that night, and she welcomed him there.

.~*~*~*~.

_June 6, 1831_

_For my fifteenth birthday — such a long time ago; an entire year and a half! — Papa bought me this diary at the bookshop. It's an old gift, I suppose, and until now I've only filled a few pages of it. I forgot about it, which I know is awfully selfish of me seeing as it was a present, but I've never been the sort of girl to keep secrets from her Papa. You see, I had no reason to really use this diary at all until now. But a few days ago, I told my Papa everything that I felt or thought. Now I've a great big secret to keep from him, and I _hate_ lying to Papa. It makes me feel awful; lying to him like this, for he's always so loving to me and he deserves better. But the truth is that I've a secret he simply mustn't know about, and that secret is that I'm quite in love._

_The gentleman in question is Marius Pontmercy. We have known each other for all of two days. You see, we ran into each other by accident in the Jardin du Luxembourg once, and I'd not been able to get him out of my mind. Such silly, girlish thoughts, for then I'd not even known his name! Can you even begin to imagine? But then the next day, whilst I was sitting in the garden, he came up to my house, though we hadn't even spoken, climbed the gate, and introduced himself. I suppose he must have followed me home: such bizarre behaviour. I don't know much about men and their habits at all; but I don't believe most men follow pretty girls home._

_Well, it doesn't matter because I love him and he loves me, and we've already confessed this to each other. We've kissed, too: and his lips are full and sweet, the kind you'd wish to spend days and days pecking with kisses. He's a little older than I but not by much (he's twenty, and I am sixteen), and a law student. Yesterday we told each other about ourselves, our lives. He's an orphan, which surprised me, just like myself._

_Now, one might think he was a very bold and noble sort — like a knight in a fairy tale — but to be frank he's not at all. Marius is not boisterous or outgoing: in fact he's quite the opposite; he's really very shy and sweet. I like that in a man, I think. It's more attractive. And besides, those who are charismatic are more likely to be untrustworthy. That's what I think, anyhow._

_I feel so silly writing these words down, but I need to put my thoughts down somewhere else I fear I shall burst from the power of them! Hopefully I'll start acting a little more reasonably soon and I'll get my head out of the clouds. Perhaps in a few days._

_But Marius must remain a secret. As I said, I didn't think I'd ever have a secret to keep from Papa before, and certainly not one as big as Marius. As I've also said, I feel terribly guilty keeping secrets from Papa._

_Then again, he keeps secrets from me too._


	2. How Strange the Taste

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_Like the Music of Angels_

.~*~*~*~.

Word Count: 5,896

Chapter II: How Strange the Taste

* * *

><p><em>June 29, 1831<em>

_Sometimes I can scarcely believe how infatuated I am._

_Since the day Monsieur Marius Pontmercy climbed the garden gate of Number 5 Rue Plumet and officially entered my life, I have thought of little else but him, and heavens, do I ever feel like _such _a child for my fantasies! We know each other perfectly well now; I think I know him a little better than he does me, for I still have secrets I've not yet told him. I also don't believe he thinks much of this: indeed, I don't believe he's even noticed how vague I sometimes am with him. He clings to my every word as though it had been made of pure gold; it's quite endearing. _

_I believe, however, that even my beloved Marius has his secrets. I suppose everyone does, but Marius really does have secrets and he keeps them from me. I have determined this because he tells me that he often attends nightly meetings with some friends of his. I was curious and I've asked him many a time about his friends and what kind of meetings they have, but he's not answered any of my questions. It's strange, don't you find? Ah, well, it's as I said: everyone has their secrets!_

_I still haven't told Papa, and I don't believe he suspects at all I've been having a secret relationship. It makes me nervous each evening when I head out to the garden: what if he questions me as to why I've been spending so much time outdoors, especially in the evenings? I fear he'll interrogate me each and every time, but he never does. Once or twice he has given me an odd look, but he's never voiced any thoughts yet, so for the moment, at least, I am in the clear. I worry, too, however: whatever shall Marius and I do when the gelid airs of winter come to the city and it is much too cold? Papa will never allow me to spend the evenings sitting outside, and I don't think I'd like to endure the bitter weather besides. Marius and I must work something out. I dread to think what might happen if we begin to lose touch._

_He really _does _consume my every thought. Most of my fantasies are simplistic and typical of a silly schoolgirl, as I've said. I dream of marrying him one day and of our imaginary future children. Once, before Marius, I thought a little about whether I want a boy or a girl; I decided I should like to have a little daughter. Do you suppose Marius likes the name Lucienne? _

_But not all my fantasies are quite so innocent; many of them are considerably more shocking and scandalous. Extremely unladylike. I'd write them down here, but they're so … well, I just feel far too embarrassed. I try not to enter these fantasies if I can. _

_I cannot deny my love with him, however, and indeed, I am due to see him tonight, as I do every night. I ought to go outside before Papa tells me it is too late. _

.~*~*~*~.

**June 30**

Cosette could have spent a lifetime dreaming about him. That day was just an ordinary Thursday, but she found herself day-dreaming of her love. She was careful, however, not to let him distract her from her studies. As she did every day, she forced herself to work through the tedium of her assigned numeracy problems, to read from her history textbook to Papa. She sat down at the table and practised her penmanship by copying out passages from Genesis onto a piece of paper. The day seemed to stretch out forever and it didn't seem to want to end.

For the first time since she'd seen Marius in the park, Papa noted on the oddities of her behaviour. He came up behind her, placing his hands on the back of her chair. It made Cosette jump, startled, and he smiled warmly at her. He pulled out the chair next to hers and dropped down onto it, gesturing for her to drop her pen with a gentle inclination of the head. "Cosette, my darling," he said, sounding hesitant. "You're so quiet these days, and it's given me cause to worry for you. Are you quite sure you're alright?"

She squirmed. "Yes, Papa. I really am fine, you mustn't worry. I suppose I'm just a bit distracted." She offered him a practised smile. If only she could tell him! She thought she might burst for the weight of it all. Instead, her father merely nodded and picked up the paper onto which she'd been copying down verses of the Book of Genesis. His eyes scanned her writing; he then set it back down on the table and told her that her handwriting was fine, and that she was free to do what she wanted for the rest of the day. A relieved Cosette stood, kissed her father on the crown of the head, and excused herself to her chambers; she now sat on the edge of her bed, reading but constantly thinking of _monsieur_ Marius.

To be completely frank, Cosette wasn't sure why the two of them still addressed each other with the appropriate prefixes of _monsieur_ and _mademoiselle_. Naturally she had no idea how he thought of her himself, but she still nearly always called him _monsieur_ even in the privacy of her own mind. It seemed terribly silly, she reflected, for they were clearly far beyond formalities in their relationship. From the very beginning, they'd even referred to each other with the informal title of _tu_, as if they'd known each other their entire lives.

Like lovers.

On the other hand, much of the nights they spent together were filled with conversation and playful flirtation as opposed to anything in the way of physicality. Each night, they kissed briefly when they said hello and kissed again, just as briefly, when they parted ways. It had been at least a week since they'd shared a long and passionate kiss. More than a week, really.

But all the same, when she stepped outside that Thursday evening and she opened the gate to Marius (by now, she'd taken to using the keys to let him in as opposed to forcing him to climb the fence each night), and gave him the usual quick kiss on the lips; and he said to her, "_Mademoiselle_ Cosette," with an inclination of the head, Cosette cocked her head to one side and answered simply, "Marius."

As usual, she closed the gate behind her and led him to the fence. They sat and talked of all manner of things. Today's dominant topic was books: she'd mentioned to him before, offhandedly, that she was a passionate reader and that her favourite books were the works of Miss Austen. As it turned out, Marius had saved a few _sous_ to purchase copies of _Pride and Prejudice_ and _Emma_; he'd spent the last fortnight or so reading these tomes and he was now eager to discuss them with her.

For her part, Cosette was just as eager to hear what he had to say, and they spent well over an hour debating the actions of Elizabeth Bennett, Mr Darcy, et cetera.

They had quite forgotten the fact that they were only sitting in her garden with Cosette's father in the house very nearby; so, when she heard Papa calling to her from the parlour window, she nearly jumped a foot in the air, springing up from the bench as she gave a hasty call that she'd be there in just a minute. Very thankfully, her father hadn't looked out the window properly, and it was already dark out besides. After giving Marius a quick kiss, she had to force him to climb the garden gate as she rushed back to the house.

After washing her face, bidding Papa a good night and putting on a nightdress, Cosette reflected that she was extremely luck her father had not looked out the window at that precise moment. It may have been dark, but not quite dark enough that he would not have been able to see two figures sitting in close proximity to one another on the stone bench in the garden, one of whom was his daughter; the other, a stranger but visibly a man.

She'd have to be more careful, she scolded herself in the silence and confines of her bedroom. Perhaps, sometimes, she'd have to stop seeing Marius. Even if it was one random night a week, else she arouse too much suspicion on part of Papa. Or even if the landlord, or the tenant upstairs (a miserable elderly woman who wanted nothing to do with anyone) saw her and told Papa.

No, she'd have to be more careful from now on. Whoever would have thought that being in love was so complicated? Whoever would have thought that one secret could have so much weight and pressure?

Sighing, Cosette rolled over in bed. If she focused on the silence, she could hear the ticking of the mantle clock in the parlour; ticking away the seconds until she could see Marius again.

.~*~*~*~.

**July 1**

She was not allowed out that evening: Papa suggested that the pair of them go for their daily stroll in the Jardin de Luxembourg a little later that day, for he explained that he had some errands to run during the day. This happened once in a while, usually every other month. Papa went out to attend to private matters and Cosette was never invited. She was not exactly upset, but she was always curious what he did. She'd asked him a number of times, and each time he answered with some vague explanation having to do with the charity business he did at the church each week.

"But, Papa," she wheedled that morning, standing in the parlour. She was still in her nightdress and her blonde hair was uncombed; it was a mere tangled mess down her back. In her hands, she toyed with his top hat, twirling it around between her fingers and absently stroking the dark silken fabric. "If it's your charity work, then why can't I ever come too? It's no great … secret at all, for I help at the church every week! Why is it that I'm never permitted to accompany you, Papa? Oh, couldn't I come just today? Please, Papa?"

He stood by the hat-stand, buttoning his waistcoat. "Cosette, my dear girl, if I recall you have some passages of history to read — and you're not even close to ready besides! I understand if you're lonely sometimes, and you miss me, but these are very private business trips. I _do_ have a job, you know."

"Yes, you have a job," Cosette agreed sceptically. "But then why is it that I'm not allowed to know what it is? I'm no longer a child, Papa, I'm all of sixteen years old and very nearly a grown adult."

"Pass my hat, dear," was his ready response.

Cosette sighed and did so; Papa was impossible when he got like this. There was no breaking through his barrier at all. He pecked her on the cheek, placed his hat upon his greying head, and went out the door. She listened to his footsteps as he headed downstairs a moment, then rushed to the window to watch him go out. She arrived in time to see him cross the garden, pass the stone bench on which she always sat with Marius, and go through the gate which Marius had climbed so many times. As was his wont, he locked it behind him.

With little else to do, Cosette got the pail of water which her father had drawn from the garden well earlier that morning and heated it over the wood stove. As it warmed, she pulled out the washtub and fetched a flannel and a bar of soap. When the water was ready, she dumped it into the tub, stripped off her nightgown and eased into the lukewarm water. It had not been terribly long ago that she'd had permission to handle the wood stove by herself: indeed, it had only been a year or two ago. Of course she'd helped Papa cook many a time, but that was with him in the kitchen and under his supervision. How overprotective he could be sometimes! He truly treated her like a child at times.

Cosette was moping. She knew it was wrong to sulk as so, but at times she could not help herself. Papa _was_ overprotective of her. He kept secrets and he was overprotective. The older she got, the more she understood just how sealed off he was to the world and to her. His very own daughter, if not by blood; but he may as well have been and that was what counted.

She tried instead to think about other matters. Matters other than Papa's oddities and matters other than Marius. To avoid both topics was indeed a challenge. So instead, Cosette focused on merely enjoying the comfort of her bath. She drew her now soaking hair over her shoulder and scrubbed gently at her body with the soap.

Twenty minutes later, she had climbed from the washtub and dried off; now she stood naked before her armoire, trying to settle on a dress to wear. She eventually settled on a favourite dress of hers: a Christmas present from Papa, just a few months old and only worn a few times. It was a lovely gown, a pleasant shade of ivory with lace at the collar and small roses embroidered at the hem. Cosette held the dress in front of herself and twirled around once, only to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror which hung on the wall opposite.

Of course she had seen herself naked many a time, but she thought nothing of it. Now, however, she set down the dress onto her bed and stared at her reflection. Ever since Marius, Cosette had been reconsidering herself, pondering as to how pretty she really was. Another funny way of love was that it changed the way one looked at oneself. She turned from side to side, inspecting her face, her hair, her naked body.

It was not deemed proper for a woman to inspect her body with such liberty, and Cosette suddenly realised it was the first time she'd really allowed herself to do so with this much freedom. She was all of sixteen now, and if she did say so herself, rather pretty. Prettier than she'd thought. Her slim body was made up of gentle curves — her legs, her neck, her torso — and her breasts were larger than she'd realised.

To be able to stand like this, stark naked, before a mirror and just _look_ at herself filled her with an odd, almost exhilarating sensation, and she revelled in the freedom of it. They were _her_ hips, _her _legs, it was _her _body; her own body which she could define _herself_, and it was so delightfully liberating that Cosette found herself quite breathless. She might have stood there for a full minute or two before she quickly turned away, understanding the scandalousness of her behaviour, and quickly she dressed.

But she was still glad she'd allowed herself that morsel of freedom, of exposing her own body, if only to herself.

.~*~*~*~.

_July 2, 1831_

_It's late evening right now, and raining very heavily. I know better than to ask Papa to let me go outside. I wouldn't want to spend a long time in such a heavy rain anyhow. That means that I'll be spending this evening sitting in my bedroom, reading or embroidering. I don't much like embroidery; by that I mean, it's far from a torture, but it's also hardly enjoyable. Reading it is, then! I've read all my books, but I believe I may settle down with some poetry before bed. _

_Such a funny thing, poetry is. I don't read any of the poems in my collection of anthologies chronologically, but once in a while it's nice to flip through the books I own and read whichever one captivates me. On my shelf, staring me in the face at the moment, is an anthology of collected romantic poems through the centuries. I think I shall read from this book, for it does seem appropriate._

_The fact that I am filling the pages of my diary with my thoughts towards what to read this evening just proves my complete boredom, I believe. I _am_ terribly bored, for I yearn to be sitting out in the garden with Marius tonight. Two nights will have passed since I've seen him, and while it's not a terribly long time, it seems to be an eternity. _

_Papa is in the sitting room right now; he is filling out some papers and he's busy. As far back as I can remember since the days I began living with him, he's hardly ever so busy that he doesn't have time to be with me. Most of his time he's spent with me. I loved this as a child, and I remember sulking whenever he was preoccupied, but I've grown out of that now and much as I love him _— _he is my own dear Papa and I love him more than I can put to words _—_ I sometimes appreciate the time I have to myself, like now. Then it can be just me and my thoughts. _

_Moving on._

_I was alone in the apartment yesterday. While alone, I did something which would be considered scandalous, but I don't feel at all shamed: quite the opposite in fact, for I actually feel a little proud of myself. This doesn't mean I'm going to tell anyone, of course: my words will never be known outside of my own mind and these pages on which I write. But I still feel a little pride for my behaviour! You see, I stood quite naked before my mirror and I _looked_ at myself for a long time. And this made me think. About love and how it's changed me, how it changes everyone. It has the power to change the way we think and look at ourselves. I thought about why it should be deemed shocking at all for a woman to look at herself in the mirror. I know ladies are forever inspecting their hair and faces in dressing-rooms, and they look at themselves in pretty dresses, et cetera, so why is it wrong to extend that to the entire body when naked? After all, my body is just as much a part of me as my face is. _

_I believe it's because I am a woman, and as a woman I don't have much in the way of rights. When I say this, I'm not referring to Papa or Marius, for both of them are good and loving people, but I speak of society as a whole, I suppose. Why wom _—

It was at this moment that Cosette stopped writing, for a strange sound outside gave her cause to jump, drop her pen, rise to her feet and approach her bedroom window, nearly knocking over her inkwell in the process. She brushed aside her curtains and looked out. For the darkness and the constant rain she couldn't see anything, but quite suddenly, the mysterious sound came again. This time she discovered its source: someone had thrown a small stone against her windowpane with the aim of an expert.

Cosette squinted, and this time, and to her great surprise, she spied Marius. Although it was wet, he'd climbed her gate and was now half-hidden behind a tree, looking up at her bedroom window. He must have fine eyesight, she reasoned, for now he realised she'd caught sight of him and he waved. Her own eyes were now adjusting a little better to the darkness outside. The poor boy was soaked to the bone; she could tell by the way his clothes clung to his body. Cosette couldn't help it, she giggled and waved back. He must have seen the light of the oil-lamp in her bedroom window. But really, to think that he'd come to see her tonight, undeterred by the rain! He really was sweet, and she loved him for it.

For a moment, she feared he was going to attempt to shimmy up the rain-pipe running down the side of the house and enter her apartment via her window, but he didn't. Instead, he remained by the three, and he was staring at her. Cosette stared back, and that was how they spent the next hour. Him standing out in the rain (she worried he'd catch his death, but Marius didn't seem to care) and her sitting by the window, the two of them merely staring, entranced by the spell that love had cast upon the both of them.

.~*~*~*~.

**July 23**

To say that Papa gave Cosette no freedom whatsoever was to be selfish. With typical teenage rebelliousness, the girl often felt this way, but she always forgot that her father granted her quite a lot of freedom, in fact. He may have been overprotective, but he allowed his daughter permission to shop at the market by herself every once in a while. He would give her some money, a basket, and a list of the shopping that needed to be done, then (somewhat reluctantly) send her off on her way. There was an excellent market near the Notre Dame, and yesterday morning Papa had asked her to go there, as it was a Saturday.

Cosette, for her part, had tried not to display how ecstatic she was. But truthfully, she'd been utterly delighted. She was in a very good mood for the rest of the day: to add to the feeling, she'd just finished with her woman's monthly bleeding the day before, leaving her feeling lighter, fresher. She'd agreed cheerily enough, and had been lucky enough to be able to see her Marius the night before. She'd given him the good news as they sat together on the stone bench, and they'd resolved to meet at half past noon in front of the neighbourhood bakery.

Now, the wicker basket dangling from the crook of her elbow, Cosette strolled down Rue Plumet, humming a merry tune to herself. She was wearing her best blue dress and matching bonnet; she'd run the brush through her blonde locks well over a hundred times. Her heart thrummed excitedly in her chest, for today she was being given the opportunity to spend an entire day with her beloved! She'd worried he might be bored by the tedium of shopping at the market, and had expressed this last night when she'd offered her invitation, but Marius had responded with heart-warming sincerity that so long as he could spend the time with her, nothing could bore him at all.

As he'd promised, Marius was seated on the stoop in front of the bakery, and when he saw her, he leapt to his feet, sprinted the few short metres between them. His arms wrapped round her slight waist as he picked her up off her feet and spun her in a circle. Many circles, in fact. Round and round he spun her, and Cosette tipped back her head and laughed openly; she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in to kiss him just as he set her down gently. The entire thing played out like a beautifully synchronised dance, and it tasted of his lips and her scarcely suppressed giggles and love. This kiss lasted longer than any previous one between the pair of them had, and it bubbled with more passion than ever before.

When they eventually pulled away, they found themselves giggling like a pair of idiots before Cosette recovered first and bid him hello; after a heartbeat or two he returned the more formal greeting, and they linked arms. "Do you know the way to the Notre Dame cathedral?" Marius presently inquired, and she smiled.

"I do, but it's an awfully long way. An hour's walk! I should think you'd prefer to hail down a hansom cab. You needn't worry, Papa gave me plenty of money, enough to pay for a carriage ride both ways, to purchase all the necessary goods, and even for a small treat. Perhaps you'd like to share that treat with me … _monsieur_?" She said the words playfully and teasingly, for they had officially long since abandoned the formal prefixes when addressing each other. This was a bit of flirtation on her part, and she loved flirting with him for it made her double over in giggles when she saw the way this action on her part made him go pink; made him stumble over his words.

So they hailed down a hansom cab. The young couple spent the ride sitting side-by-side on the seat in the carriage, knees touching; Cosette rested her head against Marius' shoulder and pressed in close, enjoying the feel of him. Both of them could sense that every so often, the driver would turn to look at them with a sceptical raise of the eyebrow, and this very nearly set them into a fit of laughter each time. How very much like children they became in each other's presence! Later Cosette would have to confess to herself that she felt a little silly for her behaviour, sometimes, but for now, she was happy to enjoy the light and liberating feeling of being in love.

When they arrived at the Notre Dame and Cosette had paid the driver the requested fare, she and Marius stepped out of the carriage. (In fact, he stepped out first and offered his hand, which made her feel like a rich lady from the romantic novels she so dearly treasured). From here, they found themselves standing arm-in-arm, wicker basket still hanging from the crook of Cosette's elbow, before the great and ancient cathedral. Just round the corner, the cobbled Parisian streets were properly packed with people varying in social class tending to their shopping, selecting the best items from the neat rows of stalls, but for now, Marius and Cosette were busy being breathtaken by the Notre Dame. Of course, they had each seen the cathedral many a time, being inhabitants of Paris, but never before had the cathedral had such presence.

"You know," Marius said softly, "It's hundreds and hundreds of years old."

"Why, of course I know that!"

Time is immeasurable when one is in love, thus, it was impossible to tell how long they stood there. But a woman pushing a wheelbarrow full of vegetables shouting out to them, "Out of the way now, lovelies!" snapped them both from their shared reverie. They headed towards the market, and as they tended to the shopping (Marius, too, purchased some food items for himself), they talked.

"So, shall you be taking a hansom cab home from here? Oh, _do_, Marius; for you've told me that you live on the very outskirts of Paris and we're presently at the heart of the city centre. I don't want you walking all that way," Cosette was saying to him towards the end of the shopping trip.

"I suppose I will," Marius answered. "Just this once, but only because I'll be weighed down with my shopping things. As I've told you, I don't have a great deal in the way of money."

Cosette leaned over a fruit vendor's stall and she picked up an apple to inspect it. She turned the fruit over in her hand, examining its fragile red skin for imperfections. "What a strange rich gentleman you are. You know, I believe that's part of the reason I love you as I do: you're a good person; you're not like most members of the elite. It's attractive." She tossed the apple a foot in the air and caught it, decided it a fine piece of fruit, and handed the vendor a _sou_. Placed the apple in her basket. Carried on. "And your neighbours, are they good people?"

A pause came before Marius answered her. "There is only one other occupied flat in the tenement where I live; the tenant in question is a man, his wife, and two daughters. The man and his wife I don't at all like, he's an alcoholic and often turns his fists and angry words on his wife and children — mostly his children, as his wife is much the same. But his daughters are good and about your age, Cosette."

She had been digging through a crate of oranges, for many of the fruits had begun to spoil and she wanted to find a fresh one, but now she looked up at him. "Friends of yours, are they?" There was no accusation in her tone, only friendly curiosity, and Marius did not take her words as such.

"The eldest girl is. The youngest I don't know as well; she's so small and meek and it's clear she downright fears her parents, but the elder is caring and I've known her — "

"_Mademoiselle_ Cosette! And Marius!" A sudden, high-pitched, childish cry interrupted him and caught the attention of both Marius and Cosette. They turned to see a small, ill-dressed boy on the other side of the street; a mere nine or ten years of age with shaggy blond hair to his tiny shoulders: a street urchin by the name of Gavroche whom Cosette knew rather well, for he came to receive bread and soup each week without fail at the church when she and Papa did their charity work. It surprised her that he seemed to know Marius as well.

She gaped at him a moment, and so did Marius. Gavroche darted across the street, narrowly avoiding being run over by a man with a wheelbarrow, and joined them before the fruit stall. His little face, though grimy, was bright with excitement, as was his wont. "Marius, I ain't seen you at all in two months! How come you haven't been coming to the meetings? Enjy's really cross with you, I'll have you know; how've you avoided seeing him at the university?" All this the child said in one breath, and after pausing to take in a quick breath of air, he rambled on, "How do you know _mademoiselle_ Cosette?"

Marius shook his head, looking over at Cosette, the puzzlement clear on his freckled face, and Cosette managed to find her voice. "Well, you see, Gavroche — "

He interrupted her, his voice taking on a teasing crow. "Has _mademoiselle_ got a gentleman friend?"

"Gav!" Marius snapped. "Yes, she has, and I don't like that tone."

His blue eyes rolled. "Oh, do come _off_ it, now, Marius … "

Cosette cut in sharply. "Tomorrow is a Sunday, Gavroche, and I trust you'll be at the church." When he nodded, she carried on: "You must not breathe a word of this to my Papa, do you understand? _Not a word_. If you do … " She gave him such a stern look, he nodded again in understanding, and turned back to Marius, apparently already bored with the topic.

"So, Pontmercy," he said lightly, and it amused Cosette that the informality of the way the child addressed Marius didn't seem to surprise the young man in the least. However Marius knew Gavroche — though she had gathered that it had something to do with the mysterious meetings — he was clearly accustomed to the boy's childish arrogance. Cosette was certainly used to his sauce, and she found it completely endearing.

"Why _haven't_ you been coming to meetings?" Gavroche was saying, but was sharply cut off by Marius, who took a hold of his small arm.

Through gritted teeth, Marius hissed, "Not _now_, Gav." After a moment's pause, he let the boy go. Gavroche, ever the cocky little pup, offered a mock military salute, spun on his bare heel, and disappeared down the street.

Once he was gone, Cosette turned to Marius with a small laugh. "My, my, it looks like we share a mutual friend! You know him through those meetings of yours, then?"

Marius shook his head and answered with the fond smile which everyone who knew Gavroche used when they spoke of him, "Yes, precisely, and I presume you know him through the charity work you and your father do. Ye gods! Isn't it a coincidence? He's a saucy little thing, but so endearing. I care for him, I truly do. Smart as a whip, that little boy is. He's just an urchin, but … "

" … he's a survivor," Cosette finished, understanding fully. "I agree. The little pup, I believe he calls himself. How lucky you are to have him as a friend."

"Indeed. And, if you would believe it, he's actually the third and youngest child of my neighbours! He ran away from home a long time ago, and I don't think his wretched parents even know he exists at all. But his sisters see him regularly."

Cosette shook her head, laughing at the impossibility of it all. "My God … oh, Marius, look! A sweets vendor!"

Indeed, just on the other side of the street, was a small sweets stall, behind which a bearded fellow called out promises of sugary indulgences that half the people passing by would never have been able to afford. "Hardened honey candies, finest in France!" "Candied nuts!" "Chocolate truffles!"

Her mouth just about watered at the thought of one. "_Mmm_. Now, I still have money left to buy that treat, and we'll just have to make it a _chocolat petit four_, won't we?"

Taking her arm again as they approached the stall, Marius answered, "Oh, yes, let's."

As it turned out, they did not have the money left to buy two truffles, so Cosette bought only one, which they agreed to share. The bearded vendor dropped it into a small paper bag and handed it to Marius, for Marius was the gentleman, and now the young couple slipped away from the market crowds to find a quiet place to eat it.

After all, everyone knew that love and chocolate went hand in hand. Marius and Cosette found a quiet fountain some blocks away to perch on the edge of, and he fed her the small chocolate delicacy so she might take the first bite. The sweet taste of it played and tingled delightfully on her tongue. Now she took the second half of the truffle, leaned forward, and took her turn to feed him.

At times like these, the sparks burst and it felt like the entire universe had been created just for little moments like these.


	3. Dreams and Luck

.

_Like the Music of Angels_

.~*~*~*~.

Author's Note: So far this story has more or less followed the pattern of the progression of one month per chapter. Following this chapter, this will no longer be the case. This story serves as a sort of missing-scenes piece, and will therefore be a **short multi-chapter**. Much as it would be nice to write a chapter to cover every month, I feel as though the story would eventually get very repetitive given all the constraints to Marius and Cosette's relationship and that a large part of the evolution of their life together would take place after their wedding. So, following this chapter — the August chapter — I will begin skipping a few months in the storytelling. I'm so sorry if this is of disappointment to you lot, but _Like the Music of Angels_ will probably only be 7-8 chapters long.

* * *

><p>Word Count: 4,591<p>

Chapter III: Dreams and Luck

* * *

><p><strong>August 7<strong>

The summer of that year had hitherto been more or less pleasant; warm but not exceedingly so, and the frequent rain of July had served as a merciful cooling mechanism. In short, the citizens of Paris had been rather comfortable, for last year's summer had been much too hot, and many elderly people had died of the heat. But it was in early August that the sweet warmth of July came to an end, replaced with a dry, sticky humidity that motivated people to stay indoors. The wealthy sealed themselves into the miniature palaces that were their houses and drank plenty of water, drawn from private wells by the servants, whereas the beggars were forced to loosen their ragged clothing and take pathetic refuge in a rare patch of shade. Such patches could be found in the shadow of a large building, 'neath the awning of a shop, or on the steps of a cathedral. These were the good places where the beggars might stay, were they not kicked out with shouts and taunts. There were also far less pleasant places, but these were the most frequented — amongst the dirt and stink of the alleyways. But they were beggars, they were the scum of the city, and alleyways they were used to.

The prospect for the poor was slightly better in the slums of San Michel, for near the square was the large cathedral which funded the weekly charity business of giving out soup and bread. Here, the priest would allow the local beggars to pass through the church doors and cool off in the pews; it was always cool in the cathedral. The scum — be they stooped old men and women with lines of suffering carved into their skin or little urchin children flung penniless into the cruelty of the world at their early age — gathered here, spread far apart with their poor, weary heads bowed in prayer and gratitude.

But today was a Sunday, and Paris' wretched were not sitting slumped in the pews of the cathedral; they were queued up outside waiting to receive their share of bread and soup. Today's soup had been cooled before being served, and the bread had been baked fluffier and lighter than usual. As was the case every week, Cosette and her father stood behind the booth, slicing bread and spooning soup from the large vat into little wooden bowls. The priest was there too, as were a small handful of other do-gooders. Cosette had put on a light, pleasant, linen summer gown and her hair went without a bonnet; dark gold locks spilling around her slim shoulders and feeling mercifully light. Despite these freedoms to help her cool, Cosette was still perspiring and in short, felt a bit miserable. What brightened her mood were the smiles of the urchin children when she handed them their soup and bread, and their high-pitched chirps of, "Thank you, _mademoiselle_!"

And as was the case most weeks, Gavroche appeared in the queue, his small face grimy as ever but his grin wide and full of childish arrogance. She'd not seen him for nearly a fortnight now, and was happy to see the boy again, but as he greeted her with the usual formal prefix — "Hello, _mademoiselle_!" — there was a hint of teasing behind it.

Cosette gripped the loaf tightly as she hacked off a slice of it. "Hello, Gavroche," she said warily, then leaned in and hissed, "Don't you dare, now." Gavroche widened his eyes in mock innocence and she rolled her own, now spooning in his soup. She handed him the bowl but neglected giving him his bread, and the child did not hesitate for a second to protest over the matter.

"Oi, now, I haven't got my bread!"

"Oh — why, silly me. I'd forgotten," she teased. "Here you are." As Cosette also handed over the bread, she flashed him a teasing smile. The boy scowled but stepped aside in the queue so that the middle-aged workingman behind him might get his share of food too. As Cosette went on with her work, Gavroche hovered next to her, munching his bread and dipping it in his soup.

"_Mademoiselle_, how's that friend o' yours, then?" he asked in a loud whisper, prompting Cosette to swat him upside the head.

"My friend is quite fine, thank you — and now, what did I say, Gavroche?"

The ten-year-old burst out laughing but left her alone; he wandered off to find a seat on the steps of the cathedral to finish his meal. Within a few minutes he returned with the bowl and bid her a cheery goodbye, as well as best wishes to the soon-to-be-wedded couple before dashing off to wherever it was he went, perhaps one of those secret little places only children knew, his small form dodging in and out of the crowd, and then he was out of sight.

.~*~*~*~.

That evening, when meeting Marius in the garden as she so often did, Cosette mentioned that she'd spoken to Gavroche again. How strange a coincidence it was, she still thought, that the two of them would share a mutual little friend in the young urchin. The young lovers spent much of that evening discussing the subject of the child, how arrogant and cocky and yet how desperately endearing he was. How there was always a smile on his face, how he always carried his chipper attitude with such ease, despite being as much a creature of the gutter as the rest of Paris' unfortunate. When Cosette tended to the charity work, most of the beggars, even the regulars, thanked her and Papa with trembling voices as if they could scarcely believe there were still good people in this world with enough space in their hearts to give out a little food; their eyes were always dull and downcast. Even the other urchin children were so meek in their manner. But Gavroche was never seen without his blue eyes twinkling and a clever remark on the edge of his tongue. He was an intelligent creature for his ten years, cleverer even than most adults, and most people who encountered him did not fail to notice this.

They spoke fondly of Gavroche, Marius sharing most of the memories for he seemed to know the boy a little better, but he was very vague when describing the background and basis for these events. So it would seem that of the secrets he kept, many of them concerned Gavroche — which made sense, really, for when the two of them had coincidentally run into him that day at the market, the child had mentioned "meetings." Cosette assumed these were the meetings that Marius kept so closely guarded. She knew everyone kept their secrets, and she supposed he had every right, but she still wished he would trust her enough to share them.

It was a bit like it was with Papa. So many secrets and questions left unanswered.

But all this she tried not to think about terribly much. Instead, Cosette thought of Marius who was here right in front of her, gorgeous, dear Marius, to whom she had already given her heart. She kissed him, and the world and her concerns melted away into the background.

.~*~*~*~.

**August 8**

The following Monday it rained, and heavily; a persistent downpour blessing all of Paris. Cosette woke early that morning to the sound of it against her window-pane, a constant _pitter-patter_ noise. She sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and broke into a smile; the rain would cool the hot August weather somewhat. Cosette was still tired, but she climbed from bed and opened the window, sticking her head out a moment. When she drew it back in again after an undeterminable period of time, she very nearly jumped out of her skin, for there was Papa standing in her doorway and watching her fondly.

"I'm sorry for startling you," he said with a small chuckle, as Cosette dropped to sit down on the edge of her bed, "But I did knock."

"I didn't hear," she admitted sheepishly, and patted the empty space of bed next to her, inviting Papa to join her. He did so, perching on the edge of the bed besides his teenage daughter, and ruffled her hair as if she were still a child. Cosette didn't mind terribly, or at least not all the time; she still enjoyed his affection even if she thought him to be overprotective.

With a chuckle, Papa answered, "I shouldn't think so, with the rainwater running in your ears like that! I only came in to tell you I've news. I spent much of last night pondering the matter, but have come to a decision, and therefore I must tell you." Cosette sat back and frowned, a little confused, but she nodded her head and her father continued. "Did you see when I was talking with the priest yesterday? No? Well, I had been, and he had a request for me. Do you remember how, a year or two ago, we used to tend to those charity-visits, giving out alms and food in response to begging letters sent to the church?"

Cosette did remember: these begging letters would be sent by only the most desperate people but whom were fortunate enough to have a roof (or some semblance to one, anyway) over their heads. Most of these people were workingmen with a wife and children who were in danger of being evicted from their shabby homes because they didn't have enough money to pay the rent any longer; or widowers struggling to find enough money for food after the passing of their working spouses. Of course, these were also people fortunate enough to be at least moderately literate, for they would write begging letters and send them out to the church. The church would then issue some do-gooders to visit these people's homes and give them the money they needed, as well as some food to put on their tables. And indeed, a couple of years ago, she used to join Papa on the charity visits and might entertain the children of these unfortunates, play games with them. But then they had stopped going, for reasons both she and Papa were uncertain about. Perhaps there had simply been no letters sent in during those two years, or perhaps the church had cut the system short for a while. (Cosette suspected the latter). She remembered the charity visits perfectly clearly indeed, and to the question that was presently being posed she nodded her head again.

Papa went on, "Well, as it so happens it's been requested that I tend to some of these charity visits, but this time in a neighbouring town, meaning that were I to go, I'd be gone overnight. In fact, I would be leaving early tomorrow morning and not be back until the late afternoon or early evening of the following day: it's a bit of a voyage. You shan't be able to come with me this time, and I'd have to leave you alone." He lifted a hand to stroke her now slightly damp hair. "How would you feel about that, darling?"

Cosette bit her lip, considering. Certainly she would miss her Papa while he was gone, and she'd never been alone in the house for such a long time before. A few hours, perhaps, but not over a day. But on the other hand, what freedom it would bring her! She would be able to spend a long time — an entire day! — with her Marius, and she very much wanted to spend more time with him. A beat, and then she nodded. "I'm sure I'd be fine with that," was her answer, and then she hastily elaborated. "But of course, Papa, I'd miss you terribly, even if it would only be a day or two. Oh, I _would_ miss you, but I shall be fine here on my own: I'm perfectly grown up now, and it's only for a short while besides."

He regarded her with scepticism, but at last nodded his head. "Well, if you're sure, love. You know that I shall miss you terribly too. But if you're quite sure — which I suppose you are — then I shall go. These good, poor people need me besides." He kissed the crown of her head, as he always had ever since she was a child, and she leaned against him, pecked him on the cheek.

Thus proceeded a lecture predictable but most tedious in nature: Cosette was to take good care of herself while he was away, and should she need anything or should any issues arise, she was to head downstairs and knock on the door of the landlord. (Thank the heavens she was old enough now to cook and light a fire herself, thus managing to avoid a lecture of being wary when using the wood stove or lighting the fireplace). But most importantly, she was to keep the door locked and not to open it to anybody. This had always been the rule Papa worried about the most and had reminded her of with the most firmness ever since she had begun living with him.

Once the lecture was finally, thankfully over, Papa went to fix breakfast while Cosette heated some water and bathed. She climbed out a short while later, dripping wet and feeling satisfyingly clean, just in time for the morning meal her father had prepared. Like all their meals, it was humble but enjoyable; today it consisted off some bread with cheese, a few slices of apple, and a glass each of hot milk.

The day proceeded.

It was much raining much too heavily to go out at all, so Cosette and her father were forced to stay indoors. Papa lit a crackling fire in the hearth, for, despite the fact that it was the middle of the summer, a fire was a comforting thing given the miserable situation of the weather. Most of the morning was passed with Cosette and Papa reading their own separate books, and a short ways into the afternoon Cosette sat down and did a bit of knitting while her father tended to some paperwork.

The rain did not let up until after the sun had begun to set, and the sky let a faint reddish glow bleed through the clouds which still remained stubbornly in place. Certainly Cosette would not be going out to see Marius tonight — a most unfortunate matter that would certainly hinder her plans for tomorrow. But just in case, while Papa baked some potatoes for supper, she wrote her beloved a short note telling him that, should it not disrupt his schedule at all, he simply must come to her garden as early as he could the following day. As early as noon, if possible. And if not, he was to arrive at the usual evening hour, and she would await him with patience. This of course was all under the assumption that he would come tonight.

Just before supper, when the potatoes were very close to being done and the table had been set, Cosette offered to fetch a pail of water from the garden well, because it would have filled with the fresh rainwater, and to her relief, Papa agreed. She drew the pail and left the note stuffed into the keyhole of the gate, where hopefully Marius would notice it. If he came, that was. She worried that he might not due to the bad weather, for by the time she and Papa finished their supper it had begun to rain again, albeit a bit lighter than last time.

In the evening, Cosette and her father played a game of chess, but the girl felt herself growing anxious, something which thankfully Papa did not note on. The night wore on; he won the chess match, and as far as Cosette knew, her Marius still hadn't come. She assumed by this point he wouldn't at all, but then, just after she had bid Papa a good night and was settling into bed herself, she saw him from her bedroom window, standing there in the rain by the gate, and naturally soaking wet. He did not see her, for he was squinting to read the note in the darkness, but Cosette blew him a kiss and fell asleep with a smile that stubbornly refused to erase itself from her face.

.~*~*~*~.

**August 9**

Nightmares found Cosette sometimes. Not very often, for most of her dreams were relatively pleasant, but even so. If she recalled correctly, she'd suffered from nightmares far more often as a child, and used to sit bolt upright in bed in a sweat with her small heart pounding in her ears and a desperate, terrified cry of, "_Papa_!" She remembered that each night, he would come running into her room without fail; he used to gather her in his strong arms and stroke her hair and whisper words of comfort until at last she fell asleep again.

Nowadays her nightmares were few and far between, but on occasion they managed to worm their way into her subconscious. Make themselves at home in her mind, unwelcome though they were, until she woke. Tonight was one such night, and Cosette awoke with a jerk and a gasp, sitting up and putting one hand to her rapidly-beating heart. A glance at the mantle clock revealed it to be three o'clock in the morning, and once she'd managed to slow her heart a bit, she flopped back down on the pillows. At sixteen, she was too grown-up to call for her father and so she lay there in the stillness of the room.

Already she'd forgotten most of the dream, but managed to recollect a few pieces of it. The dream was as confused and broken up as her memories of life before Papa were, and they shared similarities: a large, red-faced and red-haired woman who shouted; the feeling of meaty hands taking her by the wrist and shaking her hard; and always a frightening wood with a well. Cosette remembered the events of the well a little clearer, because that had been where Papa had run across her.

Cosette could gather what these fragments of memories which seeped into her dreams meant. She knew that her life before Papa, when she'd been staying with someone else, had been a wretched, miserable one. She gathered that whoever it had been she'd lived with back then had treated her unkindly, and that was why she'd pushed the memories away and locked them in a tight chest in her head, then tossed away the key. She supposed that if she tried, she would remember better, but she had no reason to want to.

So the memories stayed locked away in that chest, escaping only when she was asleep and returning to their place of banishment when she woke, and Cosette liked it that way.

After a bit longer, she fell back asleep, and when she woke again, it was nine in the morning, Papa had already gone, and Cosette didn't remember the dream in the slightest.

.~*~*~*~.

Marius was likely to come, to be there by noon, and after Cosette had bathed and eaten a small breakfast of bread and milk, she fell into a complete panic that, despite her being mature for her age, was very girlish in its nature.

Whatever were they going to _do_ when he got here? Whatever would she wear? Would he like the apartment where she lived, or would he deem it too humble and plain for his tastes? (This last one was the only thought she was able to safely dismiss, for she knew just what a humble young man Marius was himself). But in the end, Cosette still found herself spending the next hour or so tidying the apartment and rearranging things that didn't need to be rearranged: the pillows on the settee, the small glass cat on the mantelpiece, the candlesticks on the table. She considered going to Papa's bedroom to fetch the good silver candlesticks he kept on his dresser and treasured so dearly, but decided that Papa would want her to leave them in place: he truly was terribly fond of those candlesticks.

It was eleven thirty by the time Cosette was close to satisfied, and Marius was due to arrive quite soon. She was still in her nightdress, and realised that now was really the best time to get herself ready — she darted into her bedroom. Upon removing her nightdress and slipping into just her petticoat and corset, Cosette sat herself down and brushed her hair, running her ivory comb through her blonde locks a hundred times, as was considered decorous and ladylike. After much fussing and worrying over what dress to wear, she eventually selected one of the nicest of the array of gowns she owned; a pastel yellow one with a snug bodice and full skirt. She stood before the mirror and turned from side to side, inspecting her reflection. There was certainly a lot to be improved on: was that a crease on her dress? Had the laces of her corset been tied been tightly enough? And ye gods! — was that lock of hair out of place?

But whether or not that lock of hair was out of place, Cosette wouldn't know, for at this moment she was startled by the sound of a small stone hitting her windowpane, and she spun towards the source of the noise to see her Marius standing in the middle of her garden (for apparently he'd climbed the fence again) and was now staring upwards, in the direction of her window.

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and she lifted her skirts, bolted from the room. dashed down the steps, opened the door to the building. Ran to him. Threw her arms around his neck and kissed him full on the lips. He kissed her back, his lips soft and sweet-tasting, and he was picking her up and spinning her in a circle. He spun her round thrice before she pulled away, exhilarated and giggling. "Marius! Marius, stop it! I'm dizzy!"

One more spin before finally he set her down, and she stepped back, holding him at arm's length, resulting in an amusing image for he was at least half a foot taller than she. Cosette looked up into his freckled face and was bemused by the effort he'd put into his appearance — the nut brown curls which he'd tried so desperately to tame, but his cowlick remained. He was wearing nicer clothing than usual: gone was the student's vest; gone were the trousers, and had been replaced by a simple suit and clean cravat. A handkerchief was folded and tucked into his breast pocket. Cosette herself had certainly put some effort into dolling herself up, but she'd not gone to the extent he had. The entire scenario both comforted and amused her. She stood on her tiptoes and placed another brief kiss on his cheek. "How handsome you are," the words rushed from her mouth. "But before I continue admiring you, you must come inside for the heat is absolutely stifling."

Marius agreed, and proper gentleman he incidentally was, he took her arm and walked with her back to the house. They mounted the steps as one, and upon reaching the second floor landing, Cosette pushed open the door that she'd left open a crack. He stepped in first, and she followed, shutting the door behind her.

Marius had dropped her hand, and now he paced a small circle round the sitting room, looking utterly entranced; dumbstruck. After one cycle, he turned to her, standing there by the hat stand with her hands folded, he smiled at her. "It's a fine place you have here. Finer, I daresay, than my current lodgings, which in all frankness are quite grim and unpleasant. You're very lucky."

She dropped onto the settee. "It's alright, I suppose." A hand reached out and patted the space next to her. "Do come and sit, and let's decide what we're going to do today. We've the entirety of the day ahead of us, and while I speak only for myself, no plans or activities to speak of."

Obediently Marius sat down beside her, and she inched closer to him, drawn to him, to the comfort and promise of him. As she rested her head on his shoulder, Marius answered softly, "I should think I'd be quite happy to spend my day just sitting here with you, and kissing you, for just being in your very presence contents me."

"Don't be silly. I would very much like to kiss you, but we must _do_ something to, even if it's just something little like playing chess or reading: I've a collection of books ranging from poetry to the plays of Shakespeare to the novels of Miss Austen. I'd like to read something with you, you know."

A small dispute presently ensued, for Marius flushed with embarrassment and confessed that he was not very well exposed to such works of literature, and marvelled a little at how educated and clever and well-read she must be. Much cleverer, he insisted, than himself, and with a kiss to his freckled nose Cosette teased that she was well aware she was cleverer than he, but in the name of his love for her, he really ought to try to read a bit of Shakespeare with her should his simple mind allow him to understand it. Following this was a great deal of kissing, lips on lips and gasped out confessions of love that really did remind Cosette of Romeo and Juliet. She dearly hoped, however, that she and Marius might meet a happier end than that of the iconic characters.

They later did end up reading, though not _Romeo and Juliet_. Instead, she and he took turns reading from a fine translation _Twelfth Night_, which happened to be a favourite of Cosette's. The afternoon stretched on lazily and ended much too soon. Late evening had reached Paris before either knew it, and the sky had turned from cruelly cloudless blue to an inky black dotted in stars.

"My, it's late," Cosette noted. They were still on the settee, and she'd stretched out to lay her head on his lap. She set down the copy of _Twelfth Night_. "I dearly hope that today hasn't hindered any plans you had for tonight."

"My plans, Cosette," Marius nudged at her head with his knee, and she sat up, kissing him on the lips as she did so, "are all centred round you, for you are all I care for."

"But what of your friends, and those mysterious meetings of yours?"

"They don't need me tonight. Besides — there was no meeting scheduled for tonight at all."

Cosette suspected he was lying about this: the hesitation and fumbling of his words hinted as such, but there was little point in arguing. She didn't even know about his friends or what their names were — excluding, of course, little Gavroche and the one the child had mentioned, _Enjy_ — and still knew nothing about the nature of these meetings. And as there was no point in arguing, a sudden idea struck her, an idea that was terribly scandalous and yet totally inviting. Perhaps it was the combination of these two that prompted her to presently ask: "Well, then. If you've no plans for tonight … might you consider spending it here with me?"


	4. Let Children Be Lovers

.

_Like the Music of Angels_

.~*~*~*~.

TRIGGER WARNING: Some sexual references and implications in the early part of this chapter.

* * *

><p>Word Count: 6,535<p>

Chapter IV: Let Children Be Lovers

* * *

><p><em>August 10, 1831<em>

_I cannot believe I am writing these words down. But I told myself that each day, every day, I would sit myself down and write truths in this diary; that is what I am doing now. Despite the fact that I'm still a little shocked by my own conduct last night, it feels refreshing to write these things down. _

_Allow me to be a little clearer. Last night, I did something very scandalous, something that, were it to reach public ears, would make me the subject of cruel gossip for the rest of my life, would ruin me: I spent the night with Marius Pontmercy. I shared my bed with him and we slept. That's not proper conduct for a young lady, indeed! When we woke, my head was against his chest and his arm was around me. We rose and he kissed me on the cheek, and then we went for a short walk together in the Jardin du Luxembourg before parting ways with more kisses._

_Thanks heavens that I did not make love to him. We kept our clothes on and only slept with our arms wrapped around each other. But despite the fact that we did not make love, it would have been all too easy to do so. We were both thinking it, I believe. For we had the freedom to do it last night, could have done if we so desired. He could have unbuttoned his trousers and I could have removed my undergarments; one thrust and he could have been inside me._

_Even so, my behaviour was beyond inappropriate, and I don't believe I want to share a bed with a man again until I marry. It was very nice while it was happening: his kisses were sweet and warm and we were only inches away from each other. I pecked his nose and he laughed, telling me that my hair tickled. We were simply lying there, and yet I was overwhelmed with the delightful feeling of it. But then, in the morning, all I could think of was what Papa would do were he to find out. How disappointed and upset with me he would be, how angry. Angry beyond measure. And it's strange to think of Papa as angry, for he's never even shouted at me, much less struck me. He can be stern and strict, of course, but he's never raised his voice. Not even when I was a child and acted naughtily did he shout or lay a hand on me. Instead he used to take me by the shoulders and speak to me very firmly, and tell me I must never do this-or-that ever again. _

_Papa doesn't even know that I am in love. _

_When he arrived home this afternoon, I was ever so embarrassed and nervous around him, and I was blushing. Papa asked me what was the matter, and I told him I was fine. My face must be flushed because of the heat, I said. _

_I'm getting better and better at lying._

_Anyhow, Marius must remain a secret for the time being. I don't know how things will turn out when I get older, because one day I will have to marry. I have no suitors wishing to court me to speak of ( unlike many other young ladies my age) but I will marry, and I want to marry Marius. He told me once, over a month ago, that in a year or two he would marry me. We would need permission and my father's blessing, but when the time comes we shall find a way to work around that._

_For now, however, Marius might visit me as he always does, and we will kiss as we always do, but I shan't share a bed with him ever again, or any man, until the day that we find a way for him to propose to me comes. _

.~*~*~*~.

_December 17, 1831_

_As I've written in here before, Papa and I do not go to the local church, but rather, a cathedral in the slums of San Michel so that we may tend to our charity work in a more convenient fashion. Papa has never been a social sort of man, meaning that I often find myself simply dogging his footsteps and not partaking in any social activity either. We have never been to any parties or dances. _

_But today, on a routine morning visit to the bakery with Papa, something surprising took place. The baker, a Monsieur Girard, has always been very friendly with us both as far back as I can remember; he is a good man with a big heart, Papa always says, for he sometimes even gives some burnt bread to urchins who comes begging, and there aren't many souls in this city with enough kindness in their hearts to do that. While we were buying the bread, the baker mentioned to us that on the eve of Christmas Eve _— _that being, December 23 _— _there is to be a local celebration of the holiday hosted by a wealthy landowner. This celebration, apparently, requires no invitation, for this landowner wishes only for himself and his neighbours to gather, dance, drink, and make merry. The baker told us all this; told us he was notifying us both for he knew that we do not take part in social events of the area, but that perhaps we would enjoy going. "Surely the young _mademoiselle_ would like to attend a dance?" he said._

_It's all very strange behaviour for a man like that landowner living in such a wealthy neighbourhood as this one to host a local party that requires no invitation. I don't imagine most men of his status are wont to do such a thing. But on the walk home, Papa explained the likely motives behind his actions to me, and it all made sense. What a clever man my Papa is. _

_You see, the landowner in question (a Monsieur Martin) has many estates and even owns a few factories in the city. He might be able to further expand his wealth by taking ownership of a few other factories in a town some ways out of the village, but to do so he must establish a positive name for himself. This is why he is hosting a public party. We must note that it is meant to be a _local _party _— _only the wealthy will really be attending; upper-class citizens. Those of a relatively high status. Were any poor citizens to come (and it is so easy to identify one's wealth by their attire, especially at an event such as this one), they would likely be sent away by his staff._

_It's a very devious plan this Monsieur Martin has made, and yet I cannot help but feel a wanting to go. I've never had any friends growing up, and I often feel very lonely. Were I to go, I might very well make a few friends, which I desperately want. Quite timidly, I asked Papa if he would give me permission to go to the party and accompany me there. I know he would not like being surrounded by so many people, but it would be indecorous for a young lady to go to a dance unescorted. But I asked him all the same, and of course he was sceptical and hesitant. Eventually, however, he said yes! Yes, he would take me, and then after leaving me there he would find a means to slip himself away. Naturally I would have to be home by a certain hour (midnight) but he said yes. "I understand how lonely you must be, darling," he said. "I've been much too strict with you, keeping you shut up in the house all the time. You're all of seventeen years old now. It is only natural you should want to have some friends."_

_So there you are: on December 23, 1831, I shall be going to my very first dance!_

_I plan on asking Marius to meet me there. Papa will be away, and Marius is a man of high class, he has plenty of fine clothing. How grand it shall all be! We will dance together, with he as my gentleman friend, and it'll be the most marvellous time of my life. I can scarcely wait until the twenty-third. Six entire days away _— _nearly a week! _

.~*~*~*~.

**December 23**

Cosette stood in front of her mirror wearing nothing but a petticoat and her corset, brushing her long blonde hair. By now, she'd certainly run the ivory comb through it more times than the standard one hundred, yet she could not help but to worry and fret over her appearance this evening. It was only when a glance at the clock revealed that she had very little time to continue readying herself for the dance that she reluctantly let her hair alone for the time being; murmured to herself that she'd fix it later if she had time. At least she didn't need to worry about pinning her hair up properly: wearing it down was the current fashion.

She opened her armoire and began a process of stripping it of its contents; inspecting every dress and then tossing it onto the bed, rejecting the gown. This one was much too modest, and that one too plain. This one's material was scratchy against the skin, and that one's fabric was too bright and childish. This one was nice but the collar was perhaps a bit too bold, and that one, while lovely, fit a bit too short. This procedure continued until her room was covered in gowns, and she'd only just (finally) settled on a dress — a pleasant, pale blue thing covered in an ivory print of flower garnishes; with a firm bodice with a light, flowing skirt and sleeves. When she'd put the dress on, Cosette was alarmed by the sudden sound of knuckles rapping gently against her bedroom door: Papa. Her room was still flooded in dresses, but all the same she called, "Oh — c-come in."

The door cracked open, leaving just enough room for a limb to pass through, and her poor Papa was forced to brush a dress away with his toe so as to able to open the door fully and step inside. At the sight of her room, he shook his head in disbelief. "Heavens, child," he exclaimed with a faint note of disapproval in his voice, "I believe your room has been completely conquered by your finery!"

Cosette blushed and hastened to begin gathering the gowns; Papa jumped to her aid. "Well, you see, Papa," she answered jovially, "my dresses are terribly tired of being let out only to be worn, and they've half a mind to escape and find their own way of life on their own." She darted to and fro in her bedroom, gathering all the dresses up and depositing them in a messy pile on top of her bed to be put away properly later.

"Is that so?" Papa asked, shaking his head again. "Well, you be sure to put them all away later, then. It's quite alright, love; I know that you haven't got the time to tidy your things right now." Cosette had picked up the ivory comb and presently took to running it through her hair again, but Papa stayed her hands. "Don't fuss, _ma petite_ Cosette," he said. "You look perfectly lovely." These words were followed by a soft sigh, and when he spoke next, Cosette was struck by the melancholy in his tone: "Oh, but of course, I suppose you're not my _petite_ any longer, are you? Why, look at you. You're so grown up."

Cosette paused. "I'm seventeen," she finally replied levelly. "But don't worry, dear Papa. I shall always be your _petite_ Cosette, for I am proud to be the child of a man as good and loving as you." The girl allowed a smile to ghost across her lips as she stepped back to appraise her father. "You look very nice in those clothes you're now wearing, too, by the way. I do so wish you'd dress in your finery more often."

A chuckle. "Oh, I have no need of such ridiculous luxuries, precious. You know that." He held out his arm to her, which she took, and briefly leaned against him. For a moment, she was content to rest her head against him so, for she felt a little like a child again. And not a young lady of seventeen who was about to attend her first dance and whose heart was not beating madly in her chest; threatening to jump upwards into her throat.

.~*~*~*~.

Papa had long since gone and Marius was late. Cosette sat on a chair in her finery, her legs crossed, and looking with notable desperation in the direction of the entrance hall. All round her, gentlemen varying in age and young ladies danced to the small orchestra set up at the top of the steps. More than once, men had asked her to dance with him, and each time Cosette had turned them down as politely as was possible. She wanted to dance only with her beloved Marius — _if_ he would come.

The home of Monsieur Martin was an impressive one. Not as grand or elegant as those on the Champs-Élysées, of course, but nothing compared to _that_ neighbourhood of Paris. Monsieur Martin's home was a bit bigger than the house on Rue Plumet (which in truth was quite large, and was built to house only one family but had instead been divided into three apartments by the landlord) and had a handful of private staff bustling about. It stood at an impressive four storeys high and boasted a sweeping entrance hall with sparkling marble floors and a chandelier. The entrance hall expanded into what normally would have been a sitting room, but all the furniture had been put away to make room for a dance floor. Only a small corner of the sitting room near the fireplace remained untouched, as a lounging area for the guests. Against the wall in this part of the room was a long table covered in a creamy satin cloth. Pastries sat tantalisingly on what must have been Monsieur Martin's very best china, and one section of the table was devoted entirely to bottles of expensive wines and champagnes and gleaming crystal glasses from which to drink. The sitting room opened up to a sweeping staircase leading upstairs, with a landing halfway between this floor and the next storey. This landing was where the orchestra of about six or seven had set itself up, trimmed gentlemen in suits plucking at fiddle strings or blowing into flutes. They played sweet but rhythmic songs suited to the waltz, and on the dance floor the elite guests moved to the spell of the sound. _One-two-three, one-two-three._

Cosette was seated on a small sofa in the lounging area and was growing increasingly bored in waiting for Marius. She'd already eaten one small apricot tart and two chocolate truffles. Were she to eat any more pastries, she would be labelled and cast off as a glutton. She now longed for her love to arrive so that he might ask her for a dance. Surely, as she'd already turned down a number of dances, gossip would begin to spread about her.

She was honestly considering accepting the next dance that some poxy old gentleman offered her just to pass the time, when three girls near her age came to join her in the lounging area, doubled over in giggles. Like all the people here, they wore only the finest of satin gowns. The girls were leaning on each other and as one, they collapsed onto the settee just across from where Cosette was sitting. It took them a number of minutes to acknowledge the presence of the young lady their age, and in those minutes Cosette studied them.

One was tall and red-haired, another small in size and blonde, and the third was a pretty one with ebony locks done up in a most elaborate bun, despite this being out of fashion. The dark-haired one laughed with the other two, but seemed a little more reserved in her mannerism. It was evident that the red-haired girl was the leader of this little trio; the other two merely like loyal puppets, for it was she who did most of the talking and the puppets who clung to her every word, never ceasing their giggles.

"Agathe," the redhead instructed, her tone full of authority and her tongue slightly thick, "Go on, fetch us all some more champagne." Obediently, the blonde (presumably Agathe) got to her feet and made her way to the table, and only now did the remaining two girls take note of Cosette. The redhead sat up a little straighter and regarded Cosette from behind scrutinising eyes. "Oh, hello. And who are you?"

Cosette cleared her throat. "Oh, I'm just another guest here. I'm called - ."

Her words must have sounded strange to their ears, for the brunette smirked and the redhead burst into laughter again. It struck Cosette, suddenly, that they must be just a bit drunk, the brunette less so than her friends. It would explain the slight slurring of their words. "_Oh_," said the redhead between laughs, "Oh. I recognise you now. So it is _you_, then, who's turned down three _very_ well-off gentlemen a dance! Yes, Monsieur Fitzroy was quite put out about that — silly you, for he's a _barrister_."

The blonde girl, Agathe, came over with a pout and was somehow balancing three glasses bubbling with champagne on one arm. "Come now, why are you two laughing? Have you excluded me out in all the fun?" Passing her two friends champagne glasses, she dropped dramatically onto the settee and took a long sip from her own glass. "That's not fair at all."

The redhead ignored her, and leaned forward to study Cosette closer. "I'm Aurore," she said with a sort of intensity not usually found in simple introductions, "this is Isabelle, and that one there is Agathe. Now you must give us your name, for you've caused tonight's first delicious scandal and we should like to get to know you better."

"I'm Cosette," Cosette answered uncertainly. "And I've not turned down the dance of any barrister just to cause a scandal, I'll have you know. I am waiting on a — friend."

Aurore looked more than a little put out by the news. "Oh, you already have a lover. Pity." She tossed back her pretty head as Cosette squirmed, awkward and uncomfortable, on the sofa, and got the feeling she was about to be questioned. Indeed, she was right, for Aurore presently asked, "I've never seen you before, _Cosette_. Where do you live? In this neighbourhood?"

Cosette bit her lip. Since she was a child, Papa had always advised her, and quite sternly, never to disclose information about herself to strangers, for it was unsafe. But it was silly to extend that rule to girls her age who posed no threat, unpleasant though they were starting to prove themselves to be. She was merely making cordial conversation to pass the time. "I — on the Rue Plumet, if you know it at all. I don't get out much, though."

"Of course we know it," said Aurore, shaking her head. "In fact, Isabelle's grandmother lives on the street. There are many lovely houses there. But let's not discuss architecture and dwelling-places, shall we? All that's very _boring_. You said you have a lover. That's all very exciting! What's his name, then? I'll bet you that I know it: I know most _well-off_ people residing in this city. My dear friends and I are very up to date." Cosette could sense the rest of that sentence that went unspoken by her tone and implication: _up to date with all the latest gossip_. She was quickly developing a passionate dislike for these girls, especially Aurore the ringleader.

Cosette pretended to fiddle with her sleeve when the blonde puppet cut in in an irritatingly high-pitched (and slightly thick-tongued) voice: "Come now, come now, Cos_ette_, you simply must tell us his name, for I'm sure we're all so very curious!" She dissolved into giggles, as if this struck her as the funniest thing she'd said in her life.

Cosette sighed and said frankly, "My _lover_, as you put it, is called Marius."

"Marius?" asked Agathe. "Marius what? What's his family name?"

"Well, Pontmercy."

This evoked a stricken gasp from the three of them. "Oh, _no_!" exclaimed Isabelle, speaking for the first time. "Oh, not _him!_ Not the Baron's grandson! Oh, but you must know his history!"

"What of his history?"

Exchanged glances. The three girls sat back and crossed their left legs over their right in tandem. Aurore spoke this time. "Well, he's been involved in all sorts of scandals in the past _couple of years_. His grandfather shunned him from his home. He exiled him. No one knows why, for the Baron refuses to breathe a word about it, nor do his staff; if the staff keep quiet about it all then it must of course be terribly scandalous. He must have done something very bad." She shook her head. "I, for one, am both shocked and disgusted that the young Baron Pontmercy is showing his face at such a respectable event as _this_ one." Her words were as corseted as her waist.

Conveniently, it was at this moment that a young hand suddenly stuck itself under Cosette's nose, and she found herself looking up into a handsome, freckled face with warm, pale green eyes. "_Mademoiselle_," said Marius warmly. "Might I have this next dance?"

He was handsomely dressed, wearing an even nicer suit than he had that day in August, and he'd made quite the effort to tame his nut-brown curls. A new cravat was tied round his neck, and his smile was just crooked enough to make her heart beat a little quicker. Cosette smiled at him and took his hand, standing. "Why, happily, _monsieur_ _le Baron_."

She allowed him to lead her to the dance floor, giddy and almost light-headed for her near childlike excitement. The orchestra and dancers had just finished with the quadrille, and were now readying themselves for yet another waltz. After curtseying to him, and after he bowed formally to her, Cosette placed one hand on Marius' shoulder and took his left hand. His right, meanwhile, slunk low and took a firm hold of her waist. He looked excited, elated, enchanted, and she felt the same way. Marius was taller than she, tall enough for her to lean her head against him as she stared up into his handsome face. His smiling lips were parted just so, in a way that made Cosette itch to stand on her tiptoes and kiss them. She was beginning to regret inviting him to such a formal event, where they would be forced to keep to formalities, not passions, where decorum was searched for. Already she would have a hard time keeping her name above scandal. She hardly cared about local gossip and the like, but if word were to reach Papa's ears ...

The room stilled suddenly, and the music swelled. The guests, who'd been so stiffly positioned on the dance floor, now began to make their stern and proper way about the room. Only the younger couples, of which there were just a few, seemed to put passion behind their dancing, and only their faces were alight with smiles. But no one, Cosette thought to herself as Marius led her in time with the music, was more radiant than the young man before her. His movements were a little awkward and clumsy (evidently Marius spent little time on ballroom floors), and once or twice he even stepped on her foot, which caused her to nearly erupt in giggles. But despite his clumsiness, his motions had a certain inexplicable passion and vigour behind them. Or was it only her heart speaking?

Pressed against him, breathing the feel of her beloved in, Cosette turned her face upwards and murmured to him, "Did you know that, before you arrived — and I'll thank you for this, for you arrived terribly late — _three_ gentlemen wanted to dance with me? I turned them all down, of course." _One-two-three, one-two-three_.

Marius seemed apologetic. "Oh, really? Who were they? I might know them."

"Well, there was some old man called Monsieur Fitzroy. I suppose he liked the look of me."

Marius chuckled. "Oh, but I _do_ _indeed_ know a barrister by the name of Fitzroy. Perhaps he saw a good wife in you. Monsieur Fitzroy has a reputation to keep up with the fashion and gossip, but he goes yet unmarried at sixty-two. I'm very glad you turned down his dance, for last I checked, you and I are to marry." Offhandedly, Marius murmured as an afterthought, "This is all very lovely, isn't it? How long it's been since last I attended a dance or party of any kind."

"I'll marry you, _monsieur_ _le Baron_," Cosette teased him, "Provided, of course, that you don't develop a habit of tardiness in meeting me." She giggled lightly and continued. "Of course I shall marry you and no other. Monsieur Fitzroy shall have to find a wife in someone else." Quiet took over, and they turned their focus to the waltz, like the couples surrounding them. _One-two-three, one-two-three_.

He leaned in and said softly, "You know, though I've been properly shunned by my grandfather and have not attended any social events to speak of for quite some time now … well, it's simply impossible not to pick up on the gossip that circulates at such balls as these. It's all a pile of nonsense, of course, but … well, apparently there's a reason Monsieur Fitzroy is trying so desperately to get a wife at his late age, and why he's not been married before." A fumble as he stepped on Cosette's toe (again) and his ears turned pink; Cosette pretended not to notice. She gave a vague _hmm_ of interest, prompting him to continue. Marius lowered his voice. "They say he favours men."

"Oh, really?" Cosette had heard of such men. She skimmed the surrounding area in search of the barrister who'd tried to court her. She spied him standing and talking with the girl Agathe; she was clearly trying hard to slip away. While there was no real interest behind Marius' voice, it seemed strange to her that there must be others here in this very room who did find genuine intrigue behind spreading cruel and stupid rumours about others, most of which would ruin the victims should the gossip be confirmed. Suddenly, she felt herself getting tired of this dance and wanted desperately now to return home. She voiced this concern in a hushed tone to Marius, who only nodded and murmured that they could leave after this waltz and then debate over what to do next; Cosette agreed. How she wished the orchestra would stop playing and free her. Thankfully, they soon did, and the two young lovers broke apart and turned to the musicians, politely applauding.

Marius took her arm and escorted from the dance floor; they wandered to the sitting area and dropped onto the small sofa. "I agree," he said to her. "This ball is much too tedious for my taste as well. Let's away together and do something in the city before you return home: I could take you to a café and buy you something lovely to eat and drink. Do you drink at all, by the way? Meaning — have you ever done? I know you're a woman and only seventeen, but perhaps you've had a glass of wine or champagne once before?"

She hadn't. Cosette shook her head. "Never. But ... I should like to try, perhaps, just a little bit of champagne. Now, I've no intention of drinking myself into a stupor tonight: I want only to try a little." She glanced at the clock, revealing that she had a full two and a half hours yet before she would be required at home. She beamed at Marius, itching to kiss him but knowing that they would have to wait to share their love for each other. "Yes, I should like to do that with you. Come on, then." She stood, smoothing out her skirts, then suddenly realised the misfortune of her situation. "Oh, no, _wait_. Marius, a lady my age cannot walk out of a party with a gentleman she's been seen dancing with! And I cannot simply leave on my own and wait a few minutes for you to meet me: I've got no chaperone."

Marius now stood too. "Don't worry, Cosette. There is a servants' exit in the kitchen. We'll not be noticed if we go out that way. Look, the kitchen is just over there" — and he pointed to a door on the other side of this great parlour Cosette hadn't noticed before — "and the kitchen is where I shall meet you. I trust you've got a cloak?"

Some minutes later, Cosette met up with Marius in the kitchen, donning the deep blue cloak she'd brought with her, and putting on her gloves. Surprisingly, the kitchen was deserted: she'd been expecting it to be teeming with cooks and staff members, but incidentally they were either busy serving guests or tending to matters down in the cellar. As Marius had said, at the back of the kitchen was a small and plain wooden door bolted shut and letting in a bit of the late December chill. "However did you know that there would be an exit here?" she suddenly asked Marius with a frown. "Did you slip in here early to scout out potential escape routes for us?"

"Not at all," Marius retorted bluntly as he walked over to the door and lifted the bolt away. "I am a Baron's grandson if you'll recall. I came here as a child and teenager many times before, and often escaped to the kitchen to avoid the tedium of whichever dinner party I'd been dragged along to." And with that, he pushed the door open, letting in a fierce gust of wind that both of the young lovers winced against.

Escaping through the servants' exit proved easier than Cosette had anticipated. Once she got over the shock of the wind, she and Marius slipped outside and shut the door behind them. From here they merely walked arm-in-arm around the house and onto the winter street. The residence of Monsieur Martin stood out against the brumal portrait of Paris in December, positively ablaze with lights.

The streets were all completely deserted, and expectedly so, for it was late and bitterly cold out, the oncoming snowstorm a monster of billowing white. Apart from the distant liveliness of the Martin residence, only two young souls seemed to occupy the entire city, hunched against the cold and leaning against each other, the only warmth to be found.

Something neither Marius nor Cosette had accounted for, however, was that at least in this part of the city, there was not a pub or café open. This part of the city was indeed dead, both in the sense that it was deserted and culturally speaking. Cosette was about to propose they return to the party if only to sit in the lounging area and talk, when Marius suddenly and awkwardly proposed, "We could, if you wish, also travel to the — well, I mean … I know of a fine establishment that will be open yet at this hour — but it's a ways away, and in the slums. In the Place San Michel … " He raised a hand and nervously scratched at the back of his head. "Oh, but I shouldn't like to take you to the _slums_, Cosette … "

"The Place San Michel, you say?" asked Cosette, briefly pulling away from him to tug the fabric of her cloak tighter round herself. "But I go there every week, as you well know. I have no qualms in visiting the slums; I'm perfectly accustomed to them. Name the establishment. I might even know it." She smiled at him and took his arm again, resting against his shoulder. "Go on. Tell me, then." How strange, she thought to herself, that Marius seemed so reluctant simply to name a café, that he exhibited signs of regretting having mentioned the place at all. Perhaps it had something to do with all those secrets of his?

Marius cleared his throat and said, almost mumbling, "The Café Musain, if you know it."

In fact, she did — Cosette had never set foot over its threshold, but after years of visiting the same square once a week, every week, the Musain was impossible not to notice. Always packed and full of customers spilling in and out its battered wooden front door, the café served as the heart of the Place San Michel. It was known to be such a fine establishment that, despite its location, even the wealthy visited it. "But of _course_ I know it, though I've never been. It would take some talent _not_ to notice the Musain. Let us go there, then. Do you want to walk, or shall we try and hail a hansom cab?"

.~*~*~*~.

It did end up being a hansom cab they took to get to the Place San Michel; they had been lucky enough to find an unoccupied one rattling by some blocks away. Now, for the first time in her life, Cosette, clinging tight to Marius' arm in anticipation, crossed the square and mounted the two steps leading to the door of the Musain.

The Musain did not have the looks of a place that might serve the best food and wine in Paris; it blended in easily with the rest of the slums. The front window was too dirty to properly see through and the glass was slightly broken, cracks spiderwebbing outwards in one area. The awning might have once been red and white had it not been so dusty and its fabric so frayed, and the faded letters spread across it sadly spelled out the name of the pub: Le Café Musain. The stone steps were eroded by age and from being trampled on nearly twenty-four hours a day, and the door they led to barely clung to its hinges; the brown paint chipping. Marius cleared his throat before Cosette could open the door. "It's — cleaner inside. You needn't worry about dirtying your fine dress."

"I wasn't worried," Cosette said honestly. "If I dirtied it, I could wash it perfectly easily." Then, before Marius could fret further about something or other, she pushed the door open. It whined miserably as she stepped inside.

Inside it was indeed cleaner, though the furniture was still scarred by age and battered. Small, circular tables were randomly scattered about the room and a pretty dark-haired barmaid was scrubbing down the countertop, her collar lowered just enough to be deemed bold but not enough so that it was deemed totally indecent. She was laughing with a handful of working-men seated at the bar, and if Cosette didn't know better she'd say the young barmaid was flirting with them. The aforementioned tables were packed with customers of varying social class, from gutter rats and factory workers with ragged clothing and soot-smeared faces to stiff older gentlemen in all their finery. There were even a few ladies not much older than Cosette sitting in one corner, drinking cider and whispering to one another behind ivory fans. But whether wealthy or poor, all these people thrummed with some sense of _being_; even with curiosity and adventure, no matter how stifled that sense of adventure was. There was laughter, there was drink, and to come across such a convergence of social classes was both bizarre and delightful, and it filled Cosette with a sense of wonderment.

She stopped in her tracks, causing Marius nearly to bump into her, and she stared in simultaneous bewilderment and amusement. Never before had she been to such a place, a place so … well, to put it plainly, so very _alive_.

She hardly noticed when Marius nudged her, leading her to a small corner table — the only unoccupied one in the entire pub. Cosette took a seat on a hardback chair and Marius sat opposite her. He took her small, dainty hands in his, which Cosette suddenly realised were slightly calloused for some reason, like he'd been handling wood or tools. His thumbs stroked the back of her hand, and she beamed at him. "This is quite the establishment, then. It's both an upper-class café and a rowdy pub at which to drink, and it's wonderful!" She shivered as if to emphasise her point, and removed her cloak: it was in fact rather hot in here.

A minute or two past, and then the dark-haired barmaid arrived at their table. She was quite lovely, with a round, fair face and large brown eyes. She was neither distant nor curt; she was in fact very friendly and chipper as she took their orders. It was an attitude Cosette had not known to be attributed to waitresses, but of course, she'd never been to a restaurant before either. Marius ordered for them. Two champagnes and that would be all for the moment, unless Cosette wanted something to eat … ? No, she wasn't hungry, so it would just be the champagnes, then.

The service was surprisingly swift, and the barmaid came over with a frothing champagne glass in each hand. She set the glasses down before her customers, and then, with an alarmingly bold wink directed at Marius, she sauntered off to flirt with some of the rowdier men back by the barcounter.

"Have you truly never had champagne before?" Marius asked Cosette, holding his glass up. "It's really a very delightful thing, champagne; and it doesn't go to your head if you drink only a little bit. Are you ready to try it?"

Cosette bit her lip, giggled softly and nodded. She raised her own glass, clinked it against Marius', sipped.

Now, Cosette hadn't really known what it was she had been expecting but it certainly wasn't this. Why, _this_ was delightful — beyond delightful! The champagne was frothy and it sparkled in her mouth, its strange flavour danced on her tongue and filled her with a small shiver as she swallowed it. She took another careful sip, and then leaned over the little table to kiss Marius' cheek. Champagne, she decided firmly as she sat back, the taste of the drink and of him overpowering her, was a little bit like his love. It was bubbly, intoxicating; it filled her with an inexplicable warmth. And, like his love, she wanted more of it.

But she knew to be reasonable, too. Were she to have too much champagne, it would go to her brain, like it had begun to do to those three girls back at Monsieur Martin's party. Cosette couldn't afford to get drunk. She was drunk enough on Marius' love, just as he must be with hers, and that was drink enough.


	5. Room Enough for Two

.

_Like the Music of Angels_

.~*~*~*~.

Author's Note: Regret to announce that this'll be the final chapter — but don't get too upset, because there** is** a post-barricade epilogue to come afterwards, technically making this the penultimate chapter if you want to be fussy about that kind of thing.

* * *

><p>Word Count: 3,808<p>

Chapter V: Room Enough for Two

* * *

><p><strong>March 26<strong>

Winter had come and was now, finally, temporarily leaving Paris until its inevitable return come December. But December was such a long way away, and at the moment, spring was ready to bloom; only a few traces of that year's winter could be found at all. It was still too cold and windy to venture outdoors without a coat or shawl, mind you. Snow still clung unhappily to the cobblestones like souvenirs of the winter past, clumps of pristine white turned brown and ugly from mud and soot coughed up by the factories; festering.

But the skies were turning bluer and the sun was now beginning to stay up there for longer periods of time. Despite the fact that it had been officially spring for less than a week, flowers were keen to bloom this year, and, in the majesty of the Jardin du Luxembourg, bloom they did. To Cosette, strolling now as she did arm-in-arm with Papa through Paris' iconic gardens, the scene could not be any more pleasant. It was not quite beautiful, per se, but it was the oncoming _promise_ of beauty that delighted her so: the pasty, clear blue of the sky, the weather that was slowly plodding its way to warmth, and those flowers, opening up, budding, like shy young maidens blossoming into ladies.

And thought she knew it sounded silly, she liked to think that, as spring blossomed and developed, her relationship with Marius would do the same. She and he still met in her garden on a regular basis, and Cosette continued to anticipate such evenings. Anticipate _him_.

"This is all very lovely, isn't it?" she said absently to Papa now, breaking away from him to inspect a bed of begonias. "You know that I do so love the springtime." Cosette looked over her shoulder and grinned at her father. "And when spring is finished, summer shall follow, and _I_ know that _you_ love summer best of all. Well! Thank heavens that winter is over, at least." Now she joined him again, and they continued walking. "Do you suppose there will be enough rain to plant begonias in our garden, Papa?"

Papa squinted up at the sky, as though merely looking might disclose the delicious secrets of the year's future rain patterns. "I can't say for certain," was his final verdict, "but I must say I hope so, and that we may very well have a healthy rainy season come April. After all, do you remember how wet it was last year?"

Cosette did indeed remember last year's wet season, for what a wet season it had been! She'd spent many a day sitting at the window-seat in her bedroom, gazing mournfully out the window, both longing to venture outside and worrying that her flowers would drown for all the rain. Luckily, those roses had lived and flourished and hadn't withered until October, when it grew too cold for them. But that had been such a long time ago, and now the young lady couldn't bring herself to fuss quite so much about the begonias.

But Papa didn't need to know how much she'd grown up in the past year, so Cosette smiled merrily and pretended that she was still his little girl, not his young lady.

.~*~*~*~.

_March 28, 1832_

_What news I have! I am feeling very excited; my hands tremble so for the extent of it. Papa gave me the word just earlier today while we were having our lunch. It is now a little past midday and I came to my room as soon as I could to write all this down. Yes, I'm feeling very excited. Very excited indeed!_

_You see, Papa shall be tending to some more charity work tomorrow, delivering alms to the poor of the city. He won't be gone as long as he was the last time this happened, in the summer, but he shall be gone for the better part of the day all the same. I will not be coming. He asked me if I should like to, but I answered that I'd much rather stay here at home this time, and Papa didn't object in the least. In other words, from the early morning to the early evening (Papa said he expected to be home around seven o'clock but no later than eight), I shall be quite alone and able to do as I please._

_Naturally, I must ask Marius to come and visit me again. What else would I do? I suppose he'll be coming by tonight, and I shall tell him. I do so hope he won't be too busy. He comes each night without fail, but I worry that he will be otherwise occupied during the day. But he's so loyal to me, I somehow suspect he will ignore any other plans to come to see me. In a way I wish he wouldn't be so loyal; he has his own dear friends too that I believe he inconveniences for my sake. On the other hand, I will have the better part of the day to spend with him, so really I mustn't complain._

_I am now looking about my room, sitting at the window-seat (it's raining, by the way, though not very heavily). A fat volume of Shakespeare and my Bible are on the night table, by the oil-lamp. The rest of my books are organised neatly on my bookshelf. I have an armoire filled with all my good clothes, on top of which sits my chessboard. I also have a small desk on which I keep my slate, paper, pens, and inkwell. Admittedly I keep most of my knick-knacks on top of the bookshelf, where they sit on full display. There aren't terribly many; my jewellery box holds but a few things, but I do keep a reminder of my childhood: my dear doll Catherine. _

_Papa bought Catherine for me on the eve that I started my life with him. I don't remember my old life, as I've written here many a time before, but I do remember Papa buying me that doll. She sat in the window of the toy shop, and I recall that she was the biggest and loveliest porcelain doll on display_ _in her pretty pink satin dress, her carefully painted face —_ _perfect smiling lips and round blue eyes — and her real curly blonde hair. I remember that Papa took me by the hand and bid me wait outside the toy shop while he tended to something. I sat down on a nearby bench and waited patiently until he came out; when he did I got up and ran to meet him. And then from his coat Papa produced a package in brown paper. I tore it open, and there was the doll! I threw my arms around him at once and began thanking him profusely. In fact, receiving Catherine is one of my clearest — and fondest — memories. And while I am too old to play with her, I would never be able to bear to part with her._

_All these relics seem to make up who I am: a quiet girl fond of reading would be the accurate interpretation of most strangers were they to study my bedroom. All these things make me up, and paint a clearer picture of me, but this seems very strange to me because I believe people ought not be defined by _things_. People are more complicated than that._

_I have no intentions of sharing a bed with my dear Marius tomorrow, but I do want to invite him into my bedroom. Perhaps we shall play chess or read from one of my books as we did last time. We had such a fine time reading together, after all! Perhaps we will take a rest from Shakespeare and instead delve into an anthology of poetry?_

_We will, too, lie on my bed and kiss, run our hands through the other's hair; we itch and yearn for one another so. And although I wish to do more, and explore those unknown parts of me that long for him most, I know I must wait until we marry. _

_My thoughts are a little scattered today, but I now think back to that Bible on my bed. I wonder: what must God think of me up there in His Heaven? Am I a sinner in His eyes? Perhaps not quite a sinner, but certainly I am not the most charitable girl He's encountered. Hopefully this shan't be too much of an issue, because there are many more concerns and there are people doing terrible deeds out there. You'd think that a girlish romance wouldn't be at the top of His priority list._

_Even so, if God isn't judging me too harshly, the rest of the world is, and constantly. I cannot even begin to imagine how Papa would react were he to know about my Marius. Or anyone, for that matter. As a woman, I am forever being judged for all manner of things from my attire to my status to my behaviour in public. I must be a good girl, and eventually a good wife, to please society. I must please society, but what I want is to please myself, and to please myself I must be with Marius._

_Pleasing society and pleasing oneself __— how disturbing that we can only seem to have one or the other, and must choose._

.~*~*~*~.

**March 29**

The following morning, Cosette woke into an oil painting morning: her diary and inkwell on the desk, her sheets tangled around her knees, her nightdress hugging her slim body, all kissed by the pale yellowish glow of morning sunlight that leaked into her room through the window. The girl sat up in bed and stretched her arms above her head, yawned, then climbed out as she remembered that she was going to see Marius today.

She darted from the room, calling out her father's name, but he was nowhere to be found: he must have already left. She did, however, find a note left on the table, folded neatly next to a breakfast that had been laid out for her: slices of orange, buttered baguette, and a glass of milk. Cosette leaned against the table and unfolded the note. It read:

_My sweet Cosette:_

_I was forced to leave for work a bit earlier than I'd anticipated, and is it were, I did not want to wake you. I shall be back, as I said, somewhere between seven and eight o'clock, and we shall dine together then. I leave you a bit of breakfast to eat, and should you get hungry at midday you must make yourself some lunch. You may do as you like today, but I'd appreciate it if you studied a bit of your Geography or History!_

_With much love,  
>Your Papa<em>

It was a coddling note, the kind written by a doting father to his young child. It made Cosette feel ten years old again, and as she sat down to the breakfast he'd prepared her, she couldn't help but feel a bit irritated, for she was not a child, and was tired of Papa treating her like she was one. But after finishing her breakfast, she put the note away in her desk drawer before beginning to ready herself for Marius' visit. It was ten o'clock already, as she had indeed slept late, and Marius was due to come in an hour and a half.

A hasty bath took place, followed by a rapid dressing into her favourite blue gown and a combing of the hair. Cosette then sat down in the parlour with her History book and read from it until 11:30, like the good little girl Papa still seemed to see her as. At 11:30 precisely, Marius dutifully arrived. His presence was announced by a trademark stone tossed against the windowpane. She went to the window, leaned out of it, and there he was in all the glory of his ravishing boyish handsomeness. Cosette felt a broad smile tug at the corners of her lips. Then she turned, and ran down the stairs to him.

It was as if they'd not seen each other in months: Cosette sprinted across the garden and threw herself at him; his arms wound about her slight waist to scoop her up; eyelashes ticked as two pairs of lips that yearned for each other met and the rest of the world fell away.

Marius was not spinning her in circles to the point of dizziness this time, instead he had simply lifted her up just off the ground and was kissing her with passion. Cosette's own hands gripped at his lapels, ran through the mess of his nut-brown hair. It was only when they broke apart a full minute later that Marius set her down and they began to walk together, back towards the house.

Truth be told, Cosette was quite giddy, for she'd been looking forward to today since she'd gotten the news that such a chance to spend a day with Marius would arrive. (Which had only been yesterday, mind, but no matter). As soon as they were inside, Cosette shut and locked the door, then hastened to stuff her History book onto the nearest bookshelf before Marius noticed it, a little ashamed of the disorder. But it mattered little, because Marius had taken a seat on the small sofa and she hurried to join him, leaning against his strong shoulders and breathing in the scent of him. "We'll do all sorts of things today," she murmured contentedly, "though of course we shan't have the night."

Marius kissed her nose, making her giggle. "Then we must make the most of the time we have," was his severe answer. "But first, let us just sit here awhile; I'm enjoying this." So Cosette nodded happily into his shoulder and pressed closer to her lover still. One of his arms snaked round her waist, and there they were: just sitting there and relishing the other's presence.

In the space of the succeeding minutes, Cosette allowed her gaze to wander, explore Marius' form: the slope of his nose; his full, irresistible lips; the freckles scattering his boyish face; the tenderness in his pale green eyes. He was not dressed as handsomely as he had been at the Christmas dance; rather, he wore his usual outfit of a worn pair of trousers and a vest. But she spotted, too, an unusual addition to his attire today: a small, brightly coloured cloth pin, attached to his lapel. At first, she thought it was meant to resemble a flower, for it had a bold blue centrepiece, surrounded in white, and that was encircled in brilliant red fabric. It didn't look very expensive — indeed, the uneven stitching suggested that he might have fashioned the pin himself — but all the same, it was pinned there, a little above his heart, proudly. Cosette reached out a curious finger to touch the pin. Upon feeling her finger tracing the pin, Marius' gentle gaze flickered downwards and in one swift movement he had her hands trapped between his own. He brought them to his lips and kissed every one of her individual fingers and didn't let her go until all ten of her fingers had been kissed.

Once free, Cosette giggled and sat up to kiss his cheek, then turned her attention back to the pin. "It's very curious," she observed, assuming he would know to what she was referring. Indeed, he did catch on.

"My pin, you mean?" he asked, raising a finger of his own to trace out the coloured circles. "I suppose it is a little."

'It symbolises something, doesn't it?" Cosette asked, crossing her right leg over her left and leaning forwards. After a second, she realised, and her eyes lit up. She straightened. "Oh! But — that pin, its colours — why, they're the colours of the flag! It's meant to represent France or something, am I right?"

Marius smiled. "Yes, indeed. It _does_ represent our country, Cosette." His fingers continued on tracing circles on the cloth brooch absently, his motions tender. "It's a symbol of — " he suddenly cut himself off quite abruptly, and scratched at the back of his head; coughed before continuing, his words now oddly slow and measured, as if he was putting great care into the words he was now uttering. "It's just a little student thing, a symbol of … patriotism. Of love for our country. It's just a small thing between a few student friends of mine and myself. It means nothing. They're — called … cockade pins. Or sometimes … well, sometimes they are called rosettes." Finally he seemed to relax a little as he added warmly, "Rosette rhymes with your name. Rosette and Cosette. It is like I am wearing you both over my heart — my country and my love. There is room enough for you both."

.~*~*~*~.

**June 5**

The early June evening thrummed with the pleasantries of not-quite-summer. The weather was warm, not yet unpleasant, and the air still smelled of last night's rain-shower and fresh soil. A selection of brightly coloured flowers — roses, tulips, daisies, carnations — were planted neatly in the garden. The atmosphere was filled with the soft chirping of crickets and the smoke black sky above domed over a picturesque Paris at its best.

Cosette sat, as was habitual, in her garden, waiting for Marius to arrive, with an open book on her lap. She found herself filled with the usual overpowering warmth, and since yesterday that filling warmth had doubled in intensity, for yesterday marked the one-year anniversary since she and Marius had met.

She had, over the course of the year, worried that Papa would scold her for spending so much time outside, or worse still, that he would step outside and catch her mid-kiss. But Papa had at some point assumed that she liked spending evenings in the garden — weather permitting — because it gave her a little freedom, a bit of time to herself, and he seemed to understand that his teenage daughter was deserving of privacy. For this, Cosette was grateful, and she considered herself lucky that her parent was not so overbearing.

What was a bigger, more pressing concern was the wedding she and Marius were planning. Cosette would be eighteen in November, and officially past childhood. It was in that coming season that they hoped to inform her Papa that they'd been acquainted for some time, and wanted to marry. Both Marius and Cosette knew that the matter would not pass smoothly, but November was such a long way away, and for now, they were young and had only to fret over their desires.

Now Cosette sighed, feeling a little impatient. She'd been waiting out here for nearly half an hour now, and Marius still had not come. He was _never_ late, either. Very soon Papa would call her inside, and then she might not see him at all. In fact, the seventeen-year-old was starting to feel a little cross with her lover, but just then, he came, sprinting down her street. His freckled face appeared from between the bars of iron-wrought gate, his hands gripped at the metal. Smiling now, for she was unable to keep a smile from her face whenever she saw him despite her irritation, Cosette rose, set aside her book and hastened to unlock the gate to let him in. But she did not kiss him straightaway; she took him by the hand and led him over to the bench. Only when they were sitting did she scowl at him and inform him sternly, "You're quite late, you know."

Marius looked so apologetic that Cosette nearly felt guilty for being so severe with him. "Forgive me, my love," he said. Distress in his voice. "I had an important meeting I simply could not miss. I … why, come here, then! You know that you wish to kiss me!"

Cosette gave him an appraising look, but then she shook her head and leaned close. Their lips met, and the kiss was passionate; it smelled and tasted of him and — salt? Yes, that was it, the kiss tasted of salt, and it was wet. In confusion, she pulled away, and with rising alarm, discovered Marius' green eyes to be brimming with tears. The salty wetness ran down his cheeks, dripped down his nose, onto his full lips.

"You're crying," Cosette whispered, and raised a finger to wipe the tears from his beautiful face. "Marius, you're upset. You must tell me whatever's the matter."

Marius shook his head. "I'm not at all upset," he insisted, swiping at his eyes with his sleeve, and continued when Cosette pressed her lips together in firm prompt: "Really. I'm just ever so happy to be with you, my love." He cupped her face between his hands, thumbs stroking her cheeks, and she raised her chin to kiss him again. Certainly she did not believe that nothing was bothering him — his tears were nothing if not a dead giveaway — but Marius kept so many parts of himself closely guarded that to pry further would be futile.

Over the course of the next fifteen minutes or so, Marius and Cosette alternated between kissing and flirtatiously teasing the other, as they did nearly every night. But the seventeen-year-old recognised an unusual tenderness in Marius' actions and voice, in the way he drew her closer to him and in the way he merely looked at her. But their secret meeting was interrupted by a cry from the house: "Cosette! Cosette, my child, you must come inside now! You've been out there for quite some time, you know!"

Cosette slipped away gently from the bench in disappointment. "Well, I suppose I ought to be getting inside, then … " she said slowly, a rueful smile playing on her lips, while in truth she wanted nothing but to stay here with Marius, as she was growing all the more worried for him as time progressed. "To tomorrow night then, my love."

"Yes," Marius' words were but a whisper. "I suppose so. But just … oh, wait one moment, would you, and let me get a good look at you." He took her hands and brought them to the cockade pin he had taken to wearing every night. "Mercy, you're beautiful," he breathed, and then shook his head as if waking from a trance. Sharply, he jerked away and Cosette slowly stood.

"Marius — "

But before she could say another word, he was crossing the garden and exiting through the gate. He shut the gate behind him, leaving a disturbed Cosette on the other side of its bars. After turning briefly to offer her a small tremulous smile, he continued down the street, and was gone.


	6. Epilogue

.

_Like the Music of Angels_

.~*~*~*~.

* * *

><p>Word Count: 5,544<p>

Epilogue

* * *

><p><strong>June 7<strong>

When Cosette got word of what had happened to Marius, she fell into a complete panic. The carriage ride to his grandfather's home was spent by Papa trying to calm her down, better explaining the situation to her (and details of Marius' condition) with as much patience as possible, but it did little to settle her anxiety. Upon arriving at the Baron Gillenormand's grand house, she demanded of the maid who answered the door where young _monsieur_ Marius was resting, and once she'd received startled instructions, she tore past the woman and up the stairs to Marius' chambers. She did not stop running until she'd reached his bedroom door, which was ajar. Breathless, she stumbled to a stop, pushing the door open and peering in to take in the sight of its sole occupant lying on the bed.

He was asleep, as she had expected, blankets thrown back and knotted round his knees, sleep-shirt open to expose a bare chest like a Greek sculpture. But he was pale and his battered body was a pitiful sight to take in: the bandages placed over his stomach with scarlet blood staining the material, the mess of scars and flesh torn open that was his right shoulder. A lump began to form in Cosette's throat as she took a few hesitant steps into the room, not wanting to awaken him. She'd been told by Papa that Marius had sustained all of three injuries: two bullet wounds, one to the knee and another to the stomach, and in the shoulder he'd been stabbed by a soldier's bayonet. In short, it was a miracle he was still alive. Cosette swallowed hard and allowed her eyes to wander to the rest of him, the part of his body that was not so frightening to see.

His face. His cheeks-lips-nose-eyes. Neath the lids, his eyes were darting back and forth madly, disturbed. His nose sloped down to that perfect little point at the top of his mouth, which was open just slightly. His lips were just as full as they always were, and she longed to taste that mouth again and make him alright. But she didn't want to disturb his rest, so Cosette tiptoed across the room and brought over a chair that was sitting by the desk. Perching on the edge of it, she leaned forth and gingerly took hold of Marius' left hand. His palm was sweat-soaked and clammy.

Footsteps suddenly sounded from the corridor, causing Cosette to jump and look up. There in the doorframe stood Papa, shedding his waistcoat. He did not enter the room, and to her relief, he did not smile. Instead, he said, softly, "The doctor is downstairs, just so you know. He says he will live."

A breath of relief escaped Cosette and she nodded, lock-lipped and understanding. Papa continued, "He will live, and he will recover, though naturally it shall take time. His wounds are severe, but probably uninfected, I'm told." Her father offered a hand. "Let him rest now, Cosette, and come downstairs."

But Cosette shook her head firmly. "I shan't. I want to stay here with Marius." She half-expected to be scolded for disobedience, but Papa nodded understandingly, and quietly departed, leaving Cosette to be alone with Marius, who was lying so vulnerable on the bed, and in the emptiness of the room.

Her worst fears consoled, she now took the time to look around the room. It was half-dark: the room boasted large windows on either side of double doors that opened to a small balcony, but the curtains had been drawn. She did not rise to open them, for it only felt suitable that it should be dark in here, and besides, the light might awaken Marius. Mostly, the room was empty, save for this bed and the chair on which she now sat, a companion to the mahogany desk in the far corner. A majestic armoire could be seen on the other side of the room, left of the door, but it looked unused. To the door's right was an empty, dusty bookcase. These were the most imposing pieces of furniture in the room, standing impressively on either side of the door like sentries, and it occurred to Cosette that this must have been Marius' bedroom when he'd still been living here. Running her thumb over his unconscious hand, she wondered if he would be moving back in, and if she would be living with him.

It was so quiet in here, and though the sheets were disturbed round Marius' legs — an indication he'd been kicking in his sleep not long ago — and his eyes still moved back and forth, proof that he was suffering from a nightmare, she finally allowed herself to deflate and review the implausibility of her situation:

Marius and his student friends were idealistic young revolutionaries and had put up barricades across the city. Meanwhile, Papa had gotten word of her romance with Marius through a letter Marius had sent Cosette, and had decided to go to the barricades to protect the lad with whom his daughter was in love. The army had attacked them, leaving Marius terribly wounded. Papa had rescued the injured Marius by hauling him away from the battle and had dragged him through the Parisian sewers for the better part of the day, taking him home. The other students had all been killed, leaving poor Marius the only survivor. And now, here she and Papa were, with her lover lucky to be alive and her father aware of her relationship. He did not seem to be very angry with her, but Cosette reasoned that he must be and had decided to save his temper for a less desperate time.

At least he wasn't bent on separating her from him.

Cosette was still stroking the back of Marius' hand when suddenly he stirred. She was so startled that she dropped his hand and whispered his name.

Again, he stirred; a tiny pathetic whimper emerged from his throat, and Cosette clutched his hand again, repeated his name with intensity. This time she added on a few empty phrases of comfort: "Marius, it's alright. I'm here, Marius, my love." He whimpered again, a lost child, and she felt his pain as though it were her own. "I'm here with you; it's me."

The lids flickered open, revealing beneath them a pair of pale green eyes. But those eyes were not bright and warm, as they always were, they were pained and aged, grief-stricken. He blinked, and his brow furrowed. "Cosette?" he whispered in a thick voice.

"Yes, that's right; it's me, Marius. I'm here. And you've survived! You shall be alright." With her free hand, Cosette ran her fingers through his brown hair. "And — from what I understand — your name has been cleared of all charges, so you'll not be convicted for treason and … " Realising she was babbling, Cosette sucked in a few lungfuls of air, her eyes prickling with the threat of tears. "Oh, Marius, I'm just so happy you're alive!"

A smile that didn't reach his eyes played on his beautiful lips. "Happy to be alive … " he echoed in a murmur. "Didn't think I'd ever see you again, Cosette. My … " — he winced — "my angel." A dry chuckle escaped; it developed into a cough. Again Marius winced, then whispered, his voice scarcely audible. "Why … seeing you again makes my being alive worth it."

That struck a chord in Cosette. The fact of the matter was that Marius was always so happy whenever she was with him. He seemed so elated and entranced, as if she'd cast a spell upon him. Marius had been to Cosette like a beacon of light, and whenever they were together it had been as if a barrier had been erected between her and the hardships of the outside world, clearly separating them. He'd had but two emotions: happy and happier.

Yet here he was, her beloved, bright Marius Pontmercy, lying pitifully on the bed in front of her and looking like the epitome of unhappiness. Apart from his obvious ugly wounds, his face held such a look. Like it would never be able to smile again.

But of course, all his dear friends were dead. The grief Marius must be going through! It weighed him down so clearly, and Cosette was left helpless and dumb, running her hands through his hair. "Yes," was all she could say, yet another empty statement. "I am here, Marius. Now you must get better or I'll never forgive you."

Marius said nothing; Cosette's sentiments were abruptly cut short by the entrance of the doctor. The doctor was a portly, balding, moustachioed man who could have been anywhere between the ages of forty and sixty. His thinning hair was a dull shade of brown, and his small grey eyes were magnified by the tiny glasses he wore on the bridge of his rather large nose. In one fist he clutched a small flask of ale, and in the other a damp cloth; with no formal greetings he shooed Cosette from the room.

She waited, nervously hovering outside the door. She could assume what the ale was for: to ease the pain. As for the wet cloth, Cosette felt her nervousness expand into worry, for the only reason for the cloth she could come up with was to help with fever. Marius wasn't ill, was he? The worry plagued her as she paced a stretch of the corridor for the next ten or so minutes, until the doctor emerged again. She hurried to him, the thought that she might be acting a little silly or rude not even coming to her. "So he _will_ live, then? Are you certain? Oh, say he will live! And … " she babbled, " … is he in much pain? He's not ill, is he? I — "

The doctor interrupted her. "I should think that if you do care about the young Baron so deeply, you would be wise to let him alone and let the boy _rest_," he said emphatically. "I am a busy man, and I'll be going now, girl, but I'll pause to answer you questions." As if for effect, he paused, and Cosette held her breath, waiting anxiously for him to continue. "He shall live, I am sure of it unless his condition dramatically declines, though I see no reason for him to degenerate in the first place at all. If you use common sense, my girl, then you might gather that he is indeed in a great deal of pain now, he will be for a while yet … indeed, it will take him two or three months to fully recover, and the journey to recovery shall be painful." He cleared his throat. "Finally … he's not got a fever, but he's been perspiring quite a lot so I fear he might contract a bout of illness if he doesn't _rest_." Again, the last word was heavily emphasised.

Cosette closed her eyes a moment, then rubbed her hands over her face. She thanked the doctor, as he'd been thorough and frank with her, if rather gruff, and as she wandered in a daze back to Marius' room, the doctor left. She scarcely noticed.

Marius had fallen back asleep again, and his blankets had been tugged back up his body. Not wanting to awaken him, Cosette sat gingerly at the desk chair and watched him sleep. She stayed there for a long time.

It had been just past midday when Cosette and her father had left their flat for the Baron Pontmercy's grand home, and now she stayed with her love until the sun began to set in the sky, the horizon overflowing with shades of rosy pink, of bold violet, and of a harsh, blood-coloured red. It must have been past seven o'clock when Papa reappeared, his hands clasped behind his back, his stubble shaved. Again, he did not pass into the room; he stood in the doorway and cleared his throat to get his daughter's attention; she looked up in surprise upon hearing him. Papa offered her a faint smile. "Has he slept all afternoon?"

Cosette nodded. "Yes."

"Then let him alone, and come downstairs, now, for we're wanted at dinner."

.~*~*~*~.

Dinner at home with Papa had always been a very casual affair — in fact, all meals had been, and aside from one champagne outing with Marius and occasional visits to lunchtime cafes with Papa, Cosette had only ever eaten in her own home. So she was surprised, once she'd followed Papa down to the dining room, how very _formal_ and _organised_ the affair was.

There were no guests other than Papa and herself, but fine china and silverware were laid out on the long table, which had been covered with the finest satin tablecloth Cosette had ever seen; the fabric was entirely unstained and the edges were embroidered with tiny blue flowers that had been stitched paying painstaking attention to detail. The centre of the table was occupied by enormous platters of different kinds of good foods: there were buttered peas and mashed potatoes, baked potatoes stuffed with olives, a bowlful of some kind of carrot dish, and in the centre of it all was the largest quiche Cosette had ever seen. The entire table was large enough to seat as many as ten people, and the portions were certainly enough to feed as many, but only three places were set. Two, she gathered, for herself and Papa, and at the far end (though not at the head) of the table sat a woman of about fifty with greying hair tied back in a stern bun. This, Cosette was told, was Marius' aunt, and his grandfather would not be dining with them tonight. Three or four maids stood at attention in a row by the far wall like soldiers.

Nervously she took a seat at the table, folding her napkin onto her lap, and Papa sat at her elbow. Cosette glanced over at him, then back at the woman. "Good evening," she said, trying to be polite.

Marius' aunt looked up. "Yes, indeed," she said with a nod, and with a sweeping gesture, indicated the food on the table. "Go on, then, my girl: serve yourself all you like." There was no warmth in her movements, but she didn't at all seem to mind that Cosette was there, so Cosette smiled gratefully and helped herself only to small portions of peas, baked potato, and quiche — it was not desirable to take too much food and be seen as a glutton, especially by Marius' aunt.

Dinner passed. Cosette had expected Marius to be the main topic of conversation, given that he was presently grievously wounded just upstairs, but his name was not so much as mentioned. Mademoiselle (for the woman was unmarried, despite her age) Gillenormand and Papa made mere small talk about the weather and other trivial matters; Cosette joined in every once in a while, puzzled for she knew how much Papa detested small talk. She felt very out of place the entire time, especially when, the moment she'd cleared her plate, a maid came up behind her and swept it away; a few minutes later another maid appeared with a plate of apple turnovers for desert, to which Cosette politely helped herself.

Marius' grandfather, the Baron Gillenormand, did not show up at all.

After the maids had cleared the plates away and had retreated into the kitchen, and once Mademoiselle Gillenormand had excused herself, Cosette, finding herself alone in the majesty of the dining room with Papa, asked him: "Papa, shall we be returning tomorrow?" She bit her lip and ducked her head at once. She knew that, any minute now, Papa would break into a scolding about her secret affair — that had been going on for a year, no less! She would be chastised horribly for being so deceitful, and she knew Papa must be beyond furious with her. Cosette wondered just how much he really knew, and felt the nervousness churning away inside her.

But Papa smiled at his daughter with typical warmth. "We'll not be _returning_ tomorrow at all, my dear, for we shall be spending the night. In fact, we will be spending the next several nights here in the Baron's home — perhaps as long as a month!" Cosette looked up, wide-eyed, hardly able to believe it, and Papa continued: "While you were with that young lad in his room, I paid the Baron's coachman to take me home, and I've gathered an armload of our things: our clothes, and my candlesticks, and a couple of your books, for I knew you would want them here." He rose, clapped his hands together. "And now, darling, I suggest you get yourself prepared for bed, as it's been quite a long day, has it not?"

.~*~*~*~.

Not much later, a maid escorted Cosette to the bedroom where she'd be staying as a guest here. The room was surprisingly large, and quite comfortable, located on the second floor; it housed the bare necessities and a little more: a bed, a desk, a shelf, a small wardrobe, a washbasin, and even her own tub.

The maid herself couldn't have been much older than Cosette. She was meek in nature, small in size, and dark in colouring, and she introduced herself in her hushed, smoky voice as Agnès. Agnès insisted on carrying up the valise full of Cosette's clothes, and the blonde was left to trail uncomfortably and guiltily behind. As soon as Agnès led Cosette to her room, she was gone, her head bowed, forever weighed down by her status.

Fifteen minutes later, Cosette had washed her face and changed into her nightdress. She was about to climb into the soft large bed when she was surprised by a knocking at the door. Expecting it to be Papa, she answered, but instead the seventeen-year-old found herself staring up into the creased French face of a man she gathered to be Marius' grandfather. She blinked in surprise, then hastily curtseyed (she _thought_ that was what she was supposed to do, anyway) and offered a polite smile. "Good evening, monsieur."

"It is, I suppose, isn't it?" the old man grunted, then clasped his weathered hands together. "Very clear. Fine view of the stars." As Cosette glanced over her shoulder out the window and took to nodding in agreement, he ambled on. "So. You are in love with my grandson."

Her face flushed, but she managed to hold her face steady. "Yes, monsieur."

"You have been … " (and here he shuffled his feet in what could almost be called embarrassment as he tried to come up with the right word) " … _acquainted_ for a year now?"

"Yes, monsieur."

He shook his head. "You are young yet, too young to understand by grandson's own unspeakable affiliations. He attempted to rebel against our good King Louis-Philippe. It's not easy to forgive the boy for something like that, you know. Were it not for our status, he would surely hang for treason. And yet … you love him still."

"Yes, monsieur," Cosette managed. "I do. With all my heart." She waited for the Baron to address her again, but to her surprise, he promptly turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor. Taken aback, she hastened to shut the door.

She wasn't sure whether or not to expect Papa, but that night, he would not come. Though she had no way of knowing it, it would take her father three full days yet to address her secret involvement with Marius, and he would be cross and understanding, but devastated at the realisation that his little girl was growing up.

For now, however, Cosette wandered over to the window and leaned out of it, intending to get a better look at those stars. She had a fine view of the small back gardens from here, but her neck craned upwards, towards the sky. It was indeed a clear night, ideal for stargazing, and she wished Marius were better so they could admire it together: the sky was an untainted ink black, and the scattering of twinkling, beautiful, burning, dying stars light years away were beautiful. Beautiful and oblivious to the red blood that had run through the streets of one French city, the blood still warm for the hope and dream of a better world.

.~*~*~*~.

**June 8**

The following morning, Cosette woke to two pieces of news, delivered by Papa, who'd come to wake her up.

Firstly, she and Papa were wanted again in the dining hall for an English breakfast, where the Baron Gillenormand would be joining them. (Cosette, having never had an English breakfast before, found herself eager to try one). Secondly and unfortunately, she would not be allowed to see Marius all day. In fact, no one was to see him at all until late evening, for his condition had worsened somewhat and he desperately needed rest and isolation.

The mild-mannered young maid Agnès came to deliver Cosette a large pailful of water for her bath before breakfast, which she said she'd just warmed over the wood stove in the kitchen, along with a bar of soap and a flannel to dry herself with. Cosette, unaccustomed to being served, thanked her profusely and accidentally called Agnès _mademoiselle_; the serving girl flushed fuchsia at this and scuttled off in a rush, muttering about having to help with breakfast.

Half an hour later, feeling fresh but her heart weighed down by worried thoughts of poor Marius, Cosette had dressed in her best clean gown and made her way downstairs. Papa, Mademoiselle Gillenormand, and the Baron Gillenormand were already seated, the old Baron at the head of the table

On the table was, yet again, an impressive display of food: platters of bacon; bowls of porridge, and of strawberries in milk; a basket filled with toasts and accompanied by small jars of preserves; there were, too, cups of tea and coffee. Cosette had tried all these foods before of course, many a time, but never all at once and in such large amounts. As she sat herself down, emitting an awkward, polite good morning, it took effort not to serve herself too much.

Halfway through breakfast, as Cosette busied herself in spreading orange marmalade on her toast, one of the maids arrived with a newspaper, which she offered to the Baron Gillenormand. Marius' grandfather took it, but did not so much as acknowledge the woman who'd brought it to him. He thumbed through the newspaper until he found a report that was of interest to him, then settled back to reading, taking a long sip of tea. Not a word was spoken, and the maid backed away into the kitchen again.

But Cosette set down her knife, the wheels in her head turning as she found herself gripped. She surreptitiously leaned forwards, trying to get a look at the article on the front page. Surely there would be a long piece written to report on the students who'd lost their lives in their revolution? But to her surprise, there was nothing on the student revolt at all. Instead, the headlines reported on some irrelevant conflict that was going on in Spain, which the French were not involved with in the least. Letters spelled out the daily report in harsh black print that stood out against the winter- sky-grey paper. Disappointed and more than a little surprised, Cosette settled back down in her chair and returned to her toast. Papa and Mademoiselle Gillenormand were making small talk again, but to her it was little more than white noise: all she heard in her head were the cries for freedom that had been uttered by those poor students, the cries that would go unheard by public ears.

.~*~*~*~.

With little else to do, Cosette wound up wandering the back garden after breakfast. It seemed to her to be the kind of thing a lady might do without stirring up any scandals, and it reminded her of more innocent days when she used to go for strolls with Papa in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

The grounds were less expansive than she'd expected, but all the same they still managed to be a feast for the eyes. There was a small garden boasting fully bloomed flowers (as it was nearly summer), and herbs, too. There was a large, tree with low-hanging branches, and she wondered if Marius had climbed it as a child — the arrangement of the branches seemed to be _begging_ all children to take hold of them and carry themselves as high as possible. Just beyond the garden was a paved courtyard with a small shed and private well, and it was here that Cosette found Agnès, hanging the washing. The poor serving girl seemed surprised to find Cosette there, but she bowed her head and offered a polite smile. "Good morning, _mademoiselle_. What brings you here, if you don't terribly mind my forwardness?"

"I was just wandering about. The garden is most lovely," Cosette answered simply. She took a seat on the steps leading to the shed and fanned herself with her hand.

Agnès leaned over, taking a chemise and shaking it out. Cosette knew it was rude to stare, especially to stare and do nothing as a girl not much older than herself settled down to hard work, but she found herself drawn to the familiarity of the act, so watch she did, in silence. At last, Cosette abruptly enquired, "Agnès? You must forgive my rudeness, but … how old are you?"

The maid looked up, blinked her sloe brown eyes. "Eighteen, _mademoiselle_, but I will be nineteen in August."

"You're very young to be a maid, aren't you?"

Agnès clucked her tongue and reached up to hang a stocking. "Not really. My mother works as a maid here, too, and I'm a bastard child, so I don't have many other options at all." When Cosette knit her brow, the dark girl gave a shake of the head. "It's alright, _mademoiselle_. I'm used to it, and I grew up here; each year I've done a little more to help my mother out, and once I turned eighteen they started paying me. It's not a bad life, just a tedious one."

_You're very young to be a maid. _Why did those words feel so familiar? Somewhere in the complex recesses of her memory, Cosette recalled another little girl too young to be doing hard labour. She furrowed her brow, and then blurted out a concern that had been bothering her for a while now. "You know, I … I think I may be have been born out of wedlock too." As soon as she'd said it, she regretted it: to disclose such scandalous information to a stranger was ludicrous.

But Agnès surprised her by asking calmly, "Have you no mother, then, _mademoiselle_?"

Cosette shook her head. "She passed away when I was eight, but even then she never did raise me. After her death, I was taken in by a good man, a friend of my mother's from what I understand, and that is the man I now consider my Papa. I never did meet my birth father. So …. " she trailed off, and looked down at her hands, worrying the fabric of her skirts. A dry chuckle escaped her. "It matters little."

"I'm not one to judge, _mademoiselle_," was Agnès' knowing reply. "But you are very kind. I can tell that much. You are very kind, and so is that Papa of yours." She pursed her lips and cocked her head, the wet clothing dripping from her arms forgotten. "You know, _mademoiselle_, you're quite a lot like him. Good and kind and humble, with plenty of room in your heart for others. It's not a trait I often see in members of your class, if you don't mind my saying. But some … " Her gaze wandered upwards, to the second floor windows where Marius must be sleeping. " … well, there a few. Like you, and your father, and _m'sieur_ Marius." A small smile as she focused on the laundry. "Oh, you love him greatly, don't you, _mademoiselle_? I can tell."

Not for the first time, Cosette blushed. "Well — yes. One could say as much."

"Oh, anyone could tell," Agnès continued. "And a fine choice, too, for he's a good soul. Like you, _mademoiselle_. Humble and — kind. When we were small — for he's not all that much older than I — he was always good to me, and sometimes we played together. There were no other children about, so it was always a delight. We played all manner of games here in this garden, not caring for a second if we were scolded about it. With a skipping rope, with an India-rubber ball, hide-and-seek. We even climbed that tree." The finger pointed, the eyes sighed. "Life is simpler when you're a child," was her final, blunt remark. "And it's so marvellous while it lasts."

Suddenly righting herself, Agnès said, "Do you believe that the two of you shall marry when he recovers?"

And Cosette grinned. "I don't doubt it for a second."

.~*~*~*~.

It was nighttime. Cosette hadn't seen Marius at all over the course of the day, and continued to be properly worried for him. Which might have explained why she was presently slipping down the deserted corridor barefoot, a burning candle in hand lighting her way. Her steps were light and slow for fear of being caught, though by whom she wasn't sure. The Gillenormands, she'd established, slept on the third floor, and the maids in the attic. By Papa, then?

She reached Marius' chambers and pushed the door open. _If you so much as dare to creak, now … _she thought threateningly to the door, but it disobeyed and released a creak to wake the dead. Cringing, Cosette only pushed it open wide enough to slip her narrow frame through, then padded into the room, deciding it was wise not to close the door behind her.

"Marius?" her voice cut through the dark, floated in the air, and found the vulnerable form lying on the bed. To her surprise, the wounded student slowly sat up.

"Cosette?" he whispered in disbelief, reaching a hand out.

Cosette sat on the edge of his bed and placed the candle on the floor at her feet, a safe distance away from the hem of her nightdress. She lifted a hand and stroked his cheek. "Yes, it's me. Rest, now."

He obeyed, lying back down, and in the flickering candlelight Cosette took him in, trying to avoid the parts of him that were injured: narrow, freckle-covered face, now pallid; rumpled, half-buttoned sleep-shirt; brown hair which appeared to have played host to his fingers for much of the day; light green eyes that yearned for more than she'd given him credit for. She drank in the sight of him, then leaned over and briefly kissed his lips. She was surprised when she felt a hand tugging at her collar, tugging her down to him. Marius murmured into her shoulder, "Lie with me."

"You're injured. I ought not … "

"Please." He sounded so desperate that Cosette gave in. Careful not to bump against his side, she slipped under the covers and rested her head against his shoulder, his good shoulder. His arm wrapped around her and he murmured, "You're all I have left."

There was no point in evading the topic of the barricades, though it pained her to see him so lost to grief. "All your friends … " Cosette said slowly. "It's unbelievable. But there's no way of knowing yet, perhaps — "

Marius interrupted her. "It's alright. I know that there were no survivors besides me. All my friends are dead and gone, and that's that." She heard him gulp. "Now I must live with it."

Cosette closed her eyes. "We'll marry when you're healed, and together, perhaps, we shall live with it together." She shook her head. "You were willing to die for a free world."

"I suppose so. I suppose we all were."

"You had something to believe in so strongly. You were ready to die, to sacrifice yourself. All of you." She paused. "There were no items on your barricades and your lost cause in the newspapers, Marius. Not a word on how many lives were lost. How many were you?"

Marius didn't answer, and she supposed that was fair. So all Cosette said was, as frankly as she could, "It won't be easy."

"No," Marius agreed. "It won't be. But I have you, and though there is only one person left in the world that I love, it is enough."

And perhaps it was. Cosette, her eyes still closed, tried to time her breathing with his, listened to the sound of his heartbeat. She had few people in the world, too, but one of them was here, with her. Alive.

There was a long road ahead of her, she thought as Marius began to fall asleep. A long road on which she would encounter suffering. But at least she didn't have to travel it alone.

.~*~*~*~.

— The End —


End file.
